you. Given enough time, you know
all stones and bones defossilize,
enliven, and grow
again, again, again, spiriting
in cycles too vast for theories to vault.
to hide the fact you’re doing
and there’s no escape
but to dream that eons entwine,
infinitely packed without a care
for paradox or spacetime. Here, you stroke
with your little hours; here, you reach
the gods of everything.
when there is nothing else,
itself, and when all is gone,
dies. Its absence becomes
for something civilized,
a craving for stars,
galaxies and minds
In the last throes of the heat death
of what was once a universe,
everything flies apart.
Your body undoes itself, gapes
as the galaxies expand, cool, and thin
to mere suggestions.
The cosmos becomes its own
while your mind dissolves into space
me against your memory.
means there’s no going back,
no return to nonexistent homes,
while the universe breathes
out a breath never drawn in.
Truth cannot bear
infinite possibilities, in which a universe must exist
where everything is precisely the same
except your dreams are all real
and your truths are all lies.