A Silly Little Love Poem to Myself. And to You.

Last night,

I parked my car across from the Blue Vista Motor Lodge.

Thoughts clouded, hands shaking, head

In shambles.

The trees opened their arms to welcome me home.

I turned off my headlights,

The orb in the sky is large and bright

Enough to feed a thousand hungry moths.

Flying in the darkness, they swirl above

My head, swirling

Swirling

Gone.

I look to them,

Considering the mass of the universe

Everything to ever exist is

Empty space.

Not much more.

On a numerical scale,

Even 8 billion divided by infinity

Is zero.

We

Are zero.

I am.

The grass I lay on, warm

Back pressed to little feathers of emerald, the sunrises

Of spring,

Has no impact on the inevitability of time.

You

Are the equivalent of cold weather thunderstorms.

Mathematically, you

Are highly improbable,

Impossible.

Hazel eyes in a beige universe.

A flame on top of Mt. Everest.

We do not exist

In 13.8 billion.

Not for long enough

To matter, anyways.

The chance of you and I

Ever coming into commencement within ourself

Is comparable to no other.

A molecule within a vacuum.

You are a singular breath out of the lungs

of a distance runner