the story starts with a window. it’s late and I’m waving. the people I love come back home (one by one or altogether, it doesn’t matter). airports aren’t a sad thing anymore. every plane lands in my backyard and I get back what’s lost. I throw a party to celebrate the way my heart’s acting like a heart again. the flowers stop wilting because they want to stay alive to see this. the long dead plant comes back to life because it’s heard the news. the bad stuff never really happened. we dreamed it all. ate the wrong kind of thing before we slept or something like that. we dance without music because the wind’s enough. a thousand people walk on a sidewalk and they watch their feet, making room for the thousand ants. the diagnosis melts on every doctor’s tongue because the cure has already been found. and I’m not scared of anything, and I’m not tired anymore, and I’m not thinking about the thousand lives I could have lived because the one I’ve got’s enough and even the broken winged birds get their flight back. and no country loses itself to a war and no mother stops being a mother because a war couldn’t keep its hands to itself and every city stays a city and not a city’s ghost, and there’s nothing to mourn. nothing to mourn and the sky is a trustworthy thing and when it rains the whole world blooms and nothing is buried under a whole lot of yesterday and tomorrow is a believable thing. and love hasn’t ruined what it can’t save and this poem stays unwritten because it’s not needed, and nothing is needed, and we forget every word for loss and we live like that forever, where love’s not a small thing and our hands are still big enough to fit it.