talk about infinite and the finite like it's something real,
but I know you can't tell your stars from your stomach, or
kiss in comets the way you could at 18. You're no longer
I can hear you from anywhere in the universe,
That I can put on a dress and love infinitely or
finitely and science can not
tell me no
The universe cannot tell me no.
You cannot tell me no,
because I am a trillion little hexagons
of subatomic particle, and I am loving forever
in the name of entropy, where everything
in me expands forward beyond where
science tells me that I am alive.
I know that I am,
I am, I am. You used to tell me,
Come down from your window little dreamer,
and ask me why we cannot shake the star dust from our
hair or their maps from the palette
of our feet.
It's in our anatomy,
But spitting atoms won't
get you much farther
than the one atmosphere I hold in my heart, so I ask you,
how do you plan to take it back?
How will you live? Survivor,
I tell you now you won't make it
if you light candles
the way you sleep.
Science tells me that
there are children who have
died for less than what you
have made with your hands, that
there are survivors without limbs,
broken families with houses under floorboards,
and gypsies with clean feet somewhere.
But you still limit,
you limit and laugh,
and you breathe, infinitely,
and finitely, contributing
to things you've never even
tried to understand.