On Entropy

By Julia Kudler

 

Apocalypse is just a pretty word

we use to calm the overwhelming terror of knowing that

eternity

is an unfathomable concept.

 

Nothingness

lives in the space between my fingers,

the melody of the love song my first girlfriend never wrote me,

the appearance of a hand placed on the back of my head.

Entropy must be a three part harmony; what is

the sound of existence if not

the thrum of glittering flies coating my windowpane?

 

This place I have lived and loved and hated will, one day, be

scrubbed clean by deep breaths and aching fingers, but my body

still shakes in the supposed safety of my childhood bedroom.

This exchange is everywhere. The earth itself

is nothing more than the last memory of long dead stars.

 

Every person I have seen late at night tapping their feet on the subway,

all the feelings that I thought were good enough to be love,

my grandfather’s ashes scattered into the bay he lived for,

the views so beautiful I can’t help but feel this world is something worth living in,

each and every kind of rain that has gotten stuck in my eyelashes,

every action or inaction that has bridged every then to every now,

when taken into holistic consideration, I simply can’t believe

it could be possible that all this does not come to an end.

 

//

 

It could be possible that all this does not come to an end.

When taken into holistic consideration, I simply can’t believe

every action or inaction that has bridged every then to every now,

each and every kind of rain that has gotten stuck in my eyelashes,

the views so beautiful I can’t help but feel this world is something worth living in,

my grandfather’s ashes scattered into the bay he lived for,

all the feelings that I thought were good enough to be love,

every person I have seen late at night tapping their feet on the subway,

is nothing more than the last memory of long dead stars.

 

This exchange is everywhere. The earth itself

still shakes in the supposed safety of my childhood bedroom,

scrubbed clean by deep breaths and aching fingers. But my body --

this place I have lived and loved and hated -- will one day be

the thrum of glittering flies coating my windowpane.

 

The sound of existence, if not

entropy, must be a three part harmony. What is

the appearance of a hand placed on the back of my head?

The melody of the love song my first girlfriend never wrote me

lives in the space between my fingers.

 

Nothingness

is an unfathomable concept.

Eternity,

we use to calm the overwhelming terror of knowing that

apocalypse is just a pretty word.



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