You

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

limitless, 

 

That means

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.