What the Particles Remember

What’s quantum entanglement, really?

Two bodies flung apart by the same violent collision,

yet still answering to each other’s pull

across every mile,

every silence.

If your hurt carves through my ribs,

if my want ignites behind your eyes before you name it,

is it choice, or inevitability,

that we break in synchrony?

Maybe it’s the echo of our first creation,

written in the particles that built us,

the memory of light before it learned to bend.

Maybe it’s the way gravity remembers,

even when stars collapse,

even when the dark stretches wide between them.

Maybe whatever shattered us

couldn’t bear to keep us separate,

so it stitched our pieces together

and set the thread alight.

And maybe that fire

wasn’t meant to burn at first,

maybe it needed every betrayal,

every wrong turn,

every storm we staggered through,

just so when we finally saw it,

we’d understand.

What if entanglement isn’t science, but penance?

Two halves of the same equation, condemned to repeat each other's ache until the universe grows tired of symmetry.

They say nothing travels faster than light,

but pain does,

it leaps the void between us before breath can catch it,

before thought can name it.

I feel you fracture in another language,

a pulse beneath my ribs that doesn’t belong to me.

Every distance is a lie,

even the silence hums with your fingerprint.

Maybe this is how gods punish creation,

by binding what once was whole into mirrors that can never meet.

By teaching us to crave what we cannot touch,

to orbit the ghost of each other's warmth

until the longing itself becomes religion.

We’ve broken apart so many times,

the universe uses our names for coordinates.

And still, the pull remains.

Still, something in the dark keeps whispering: closer.

If there is meaning,

it is written in that impossible tension,

the almost,

the ache that refuses to unthread.

Maybe love is just quantum memory,

particles remembering what it felt like to belong.

And when the world ends,

when light forgets itself again,

I think we’ll still find each other,

not as bodies,

not as names,

but as the echo that started it all:

two sparks born from the same collapse,

still burning in tandem,

still answering when called.