A Loop Unfinishe
by Sanna Jordansson

Part I: The Colour of Boom

I love
but the words sometimes don’t want to stick
to the roof of my mouth long enough
to make it out whole.

This — continuous misdirection unagreed.
I’m out here spinning static, no wheels.

There’s the acapella recital,
where nobody came for the for the fucking dive bar fight.

But I hum your name
somewhere between
the white noise
and the thick air.
You know the one; åskan i juli.
The one where lighting struck the hill
behind the barn propped up on rocks.
Helvete vad det lät. That summer.
The hair on our heads travelling to meet the next.

“I am the colour of boom”

They ask,
why didn’t you say?
Why didn’t you think?
Why did you not respond to me calling, out?
And I want to scream,
I did,
a thousand times,
I have all the receipts of my reply —
stuck in the attic, never made it out the box.
But it did — is what I want to say.
My reply was sent like a thousand times.
Just to the wrong sky, and to my outbox.

I’ve been flying since I was four years old.
Piloting it all.
Just never stuck the landing.
When I’m up here running inversion, splits, rolls,
I can only see the ground beneath me at short glimpses.
Not the gravity of us — never that.
I get short glimpses of the audience,
their wonder.

I am the colour of boom.
The audience queued.
Travelled far for colour, shapes, dangerous manoeuvres.   
“Will she do the barrel roll this time you think?”
Kids with sticky fingers, mums faces turned up
with their hand shielding their eyes.
Wouldn’t want to waste the entrance fees.
“Kids! Look! She’s in a tailspin!”

The “are you safe?” texts,
your anchor,
your silent “I care.”
I hear it like a fire alarm
in a dream I was supposed to be awake for.
And you think —
is it indifference?
Maybe — I don’t know anymore.

It’s a mind that can’t close the loop,
your old Nintendo circuit board.
Some potentially worrying cracks in the wrong places.
Maybe put it back in the basement for a bit. Safer there.
Not safe for children — for now.
I am the adrenaline sweat on your brow.
I’m the eye twitch you always get from the winter winds —
even though you bend for the gusts.

Distance — it is not my axe.
It’s just the empty space
between a lightning strike
and the sound of thunder.
And it is a beautiful space.
One leads the other.
I’m coming back to you.
I swear.

Spinning one hundred and fifty three times.
Now pin it on love.
Shit.
I just tore off the map from the Atlas
a little carelessly,
because I was late,
for seeing you.
So it is now missing some pieces
I think I left behind the part with all the main roads on.

My love, (like the proper kind)
not directionless,
but forever late.
Not loveless,
just full of detours
you never signed up for.
It’s truly not your fault,
and it’s not entirely mine,
but I’ll forget to say that too.

Part II: The Spark

And yet —
when the world is burning
or when the pieces don’t fit,
it’s me you want in the room.
Chaos is where I live.
Your crisis is my blueprint.
That map I already know by heart,
no atlas required.
The roads lighting up
one by one in the dark.
I see everything you don’t,
the hairline cracks,
the loose threads,
the whisper beneath the scream.
I don’t miss a thing,
even when it seems like I do.
Your favourite song from five years ago?
I remember.
The way you like your coffee —
crema, stirred clockwise,
but only when you’re sad?
I know that too.
Every word you’ve ever said
about what makes your soul
feel whole — I’ve stored them.

When the world tips sideways,
I’ll be the one
pulling the ground back into place.
My instincts don’t stutter,
my feet don’t falter.
I’ll spot the wolf dressed up
before it even breathes wrong.
I am every moment you didn’t notice,
I am keeping guard.

I don’t just see the details;
I am the details,
just not very well assembled
most of the time.

The things that matter?
Those are carved into me
like a second spine.
Unfairness, harm — white–hot rage.
Human shield, for you.
Every day for you, and twice on Sundays.

“If standing up for you burns bridges,
I’ve got matches, we ride at dawn.”
A flicker of the eyes,
and I know you’re hiding something.
The smallest shift in tone,
and I’ll hear
what you can’t even say yet.
I’m not fragile.
I’m the chaos and the calm.

My life the chaos. I know her. Can trace every line.
So when the world puts chaos at your doorstep, I’m the chaos whisperer,
making the world’s edges sharper, clearer, laser focused.
When your world speeds up and threatens to pull you under,
mine slows down.

So, I’ve got you.

Wired wild,
fierce
force
forgetting.

Part III: 24 Concentrated Hours

If I only open one eye
and squint
then the floor doesn’t look like
it dressed itself in the dark.
All almost–choices
and none clean enough for the rail
or dirty enough for laundry.

Rooms fold into rooms.
I go in and out,
in and out,
chasing a very distant memory of what.thefuck.did.I.come.in.here.for.
Not even a proper memory anymore,
maybe adjacent to a memory — at best.

WHY DID I COME IN HERE?
What was I looking for?
By the time I remember,
I’m in a different room,
and the loop starts over.
Wallet.
Keys.
Headphones.

Where are the fucking headphones?

“Just go without them, you are only on the train for 30 minutes…”
Everyone knows that is bordering on illegal.
And besides what am supposed to do to ensure my brain doesn’t fry.
No headphones —

I buy new ones,
tear open the package,
receipt left with the boy–not–man cashier,
kind eyes but didn’t open the clicky lock fast enough on the displays.

Need somewhere to put remnants of headphone trash
and there they are:
the old pair,
fucking coiled into a smirk.
Not even at the bottom of my bag.
like, right.fucking.there.

Late.
Always late.
The lunch date I booked with you —
in my diary,
on my phone,
written on a post–it stuck to the fridge.
I still forget.
You call,
your voice tight,
and it slices through me.

The mail stacks up,
envelopes building Jenga,
each one a failed, lost, never–made–it–out–of–the–attic–box intention.

I won’t open them.
When the pile topples,
I shove it all into a plastic bag.
Luckily, I have an actual magic broom cupboard in my house.
Anything you put there, just gets dealt with,
disappears,
so I can start again.
Jenga is fun though, people should play more Jenga.
When I was growing up my favourite flavour chewing gum was Jenka.
That’s almost the same.

I start googling if Jenga and Jenka somehow were owned
by the same trademark.
It feels important.
Because I like important things.

I start googling,
how many words in English only have one letter difference.
Finally I realise what I am doing, and I stop.
The search should of course have been how many words are spelt the same
but mean different things.

If I don’t move,
I’ll drown in the stillness.

The day spins loose,
but somehow,
it’s still mine.
I’m still here,
alive,
doing barrel rolls
in the stumbles,
in the loops I can’t close.
This is 24 hours in me.

Part IV: Hard to Love — Loving Hard

I love hard,
it’s not subtle.
It’s never calm,
but I am always me
and therefore it must be real.
Right?

I’ll keep every detail of you,
how ice–cream floats became your outpost of courage,
how you catch yourself a little too late when you first see my face,
head tilting a degree east,
the printouts sailing through the hall like terrible and unfolded paper planes,
the places in which your heart has been broken
and where they are now mended again.

But I’ll forget the plans we had on Friday.
I’ll leave messages unread,
and my suitcase in the hallway,
and my love scattered everywhere —

I’ll ask for space.
It’s not absence,
it’s resetting the current.
Recalibration.
So I can breathe in tandem with you.
It’s not distance;
it’s a field of moss to stretch my tangled mind.

I step away to stay whole,
to come back to you, connected
breathing in sync.

I trust in space.
The space won’t break us.
I am fluent in space.
I’ll help you.

When I momentarily disappear,
it’s not because you don’t matter.
It’s because time slips like the bright green lichen
and I’m chasing it,
always chasing it,
always trying to make it behave.
I’ll frustrate you.
I’ll make you roll your eyes,
and sigh,
and maybe cry.

I’ll forget anniversaries
while remembering the exact color
of the real dream in the daylight
the morning after the first night
I asked if we could kiss.

When you need me,
really need me,
I’ll be there.
I’ll stand between you and the world,
bare hands and wild protection.

It’s messy and loud,
flawed and restless,
but sharp,
honest,
and completely yours.
This is love
when my brain won’t sit still.
It bends and coils,
a pulse that skips,
a rhythm that builds and doubles back.
But it’s the kind of love
that never runs out,
never holds back,
and never lets her go.

January 2025
Värmland County, Sweden