By Isabella George

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In momentum: a friend and all the lovely people who sadly aren’t here. This is a piece about the grief and healing that comes with loss.

00:01 	mezzo-piano
little songbird, little songbird,
contrite, they still say there was nothing i could have done, 
nails pin pricking flesh, a presto tempo darting through my veins,
words upon my lips slamming into a crescendo,
tasting the symbols of what-ifs across my tongue, yet the world is too oblivious. i’m frozen

in the late night, 1 am again, “just hold on, and talk to me, i’m here for you,” i say,
don’t you remember that promise? halfway across the world, on different screens, we found our salvation 
in each other, holding together like a blanket draped in caresses and whispered comfort, 
i was the angel, sissy was the diva, percy was the joker, but you were the songbird spilling words, 
singing melodies for our souls, taking our pain, and mending your voice through the cracks. 

01:39 	little songbird, little songbird,
where did it all go wrong? 
my heart aches for the way you scarred your wings, tearing your blanket 
by thread by thread, if you pondered where to cut, then they answered:
the tip of your finger, the underside of your leg, the blade of your shoulder. you were a songbird, 
so fragile and pure, and they, those monsters, hunted your soul, snarling you were never valid,
as they consume the shared thoughts and love we cover in like cannibals. i should have

seen the epilogue coming, but i didn’t, and it’s like radio static 
in my head, cauterizing your voice. desperate, i open up your message once more,
read 2:17 am	“farewell, if I’m not back here in a few days, please sing a song for me,” you said,
but my voice is hoarse and i cannot sing anymore, so
in lieu of song: write a poem, sit curled up in the night’s sky with violin music, and read it with a quivering howl,
spend some time contemplating a single word. a stanza maybe. 
breath, touch the dew. cry, hold knees together tight. listen, gaze at the stars. think 
about schrödinger's cat, how are you and i the improbable paradox? die and live and die repent.

02:46	little songbird, little songbird,
you will be disappointed that my voice clips in silence whenever i try to tell you this,
it is so goddamn ironic, then, writing a poem i cannot speak, 
when did this turn from poetry into a list of heartbreak my mind spewed out? still, what is the purpose?
i can’t think of a good one when i never said, never typed, never did enough. even now, too late, i lay my hands

flat against the screen, simultaneously beating,
trembling as i write this, my hands trying to grasp yours,
but all i ever feel is the forgotten words and foreign coolness,
coveted words, i could have, i should have, 
backspace	delete stanza.

my little songbird, my little songbird,
you
	sang
		and
			sang
				until 
					silence
						overcame
							you,
						until
					i 
				was
			the
		sound
	that
remained

03:06	 pianissimo.


delete poem?
	i-
	…
…{several people are typing}...
	…
	…
{one person is typing}
											no, you i breathe
is this the ending?
no, you i scream

my little songbird, my little songbird,
i think of you with a smile,
a bittersweet one, 
yet the memories,
glisten in this poem,
like the raindrops i wipe away,
					so let’s 
rewind time 
			back to the good old days 
if only for a little while,
i sang at last.

03:12	forte coda
(you are Dead, six feet beneath my toes. i wiggle them and feel your lovely bones. i hear clair de lune along my eardrums, threading across my being. finally, i sing, and you're singing along, the melody intertwining through my ribs and into my still-healing heart. i rewind your song once, twice, maybe thrice. when the sun crowns a new day, the golden halo its throne, i push play.)

00:00	 fortissimo.