Jonathan Johnson-Swagel

Imagine, in this endless world of people,
so many faces folding into themselves,
so many hearts beating but never heard—
loneliness hums like a second pulse.
The body, starving for touch, for the weight
of another’s gaze lingering long enough to see it.
Even the smallest thing—a shared bag
of Cheez-Its, a laugh that snags in the throat—
would be a feast.

But what if the soul gets what it begs for?
What if it rises, slips free of this aching muscle,
this scaffolding of nerve and bone?
Wouldn’t it realize, all at once,
how much it misses the body?
The strange, fragile miracles of being held—
not by love, but by gravity.
The holy violence of a heart
that refuses to stop beating.

Imagine the soul, wandering the cosmos,
searching for the taste of salt on its lip,
for the trembling wrist
that once whispered across a prayer.
The universe offers nothing like this.
It offers silence where there was once a voice,
stillness where there was once hunger.

The soul would grieve, wouldn’t it?
Miss the way the body could bruise
and call it proof of being alive.
Miss the laugh that erupted through tears,
the goosebumps that rose
as if the body could speak for the spirit.
Miss the sharp sting of a stubbed toe—
proof of the ground beneath it.

Imagine the stars leaning in,
hungry to understand the beauty of limitation.
Tell us, they whisper,
about the body’s refusal to stop breaking,
to stop healing. Tell us how the smallest ache
could feel so infinite,
how the smallest joy could feel
like salvation.