What’s the word for that invincible, terrified feeling
you get from carrying around a typed list
of intimate questions to ask a perfect stranger?
the starter pistol shot of adrenaline that ignites
one vertebrae at a time in half a millisecond, like
an action-movie elevator shaft explosion?
the tripling of your heartbeat, neurons swarming
bees in those ten seconds before you turn on the
smile hello and exist in the single, present moment?
Oh, right. Alive.