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Love Poem From the Universe

You have one heart and I have a billion
billion stars. You experience doubt
and sleep. But I wield gravity and
quiet the tides. You believe in money;
I bend time and polish space until
the darkness gleams. You wept,
and I bellowed new moons,
threw rainbows against a blank sky.
You were sad, and I sewed black holes
where once there was nothing.
You laughed, and I blew meteors like dandelions
across the night. You know boredom, so I
wrote a supernova and conducted
an endless planetary opera,
its libretto in the language of mathematics.
Your curiosity has limits,
so I raise mountains from the sea,
invent snowflakes of infinite variety,
set fires, reverse magnetic fields,
and paint a new color somewhere every day.
You are restless, and I have been dancing
for eons, my spiral galaxies spinning
a choreography of haunting precision.
You made bombs, and I sent butterflies
migrating across vast continents.
You clipped your nails and I chronicled
the history of everything—wars, weddings,
nail clippings, the sunward leaning
of every tree and flower. You despaired,
and I gave you irises and orchids,
rainforests and three-toed sloths.
You are forgetful, so I gave you
the scent of a baby’s head.
I offered you fossils.
You were anxious,
so I read you the poetry of waterfalls.
You were in pain, and I told the eagle
to survey the ground from the highest bough.
You balk at wisdom and I blink
at annihilation. You fear
death and I compress matter.
Your breaths are numbered
and you go shopping; I convince the sun
to set and rise and coax the earth
through its revolutions. I brought you
the seasons, the panting dog in summer,
the red leaf, the bare limbs of winter,
the crocus in spring, the exquisite kiss.
When you were lonely,
I sent you the sound of faraway trains
and wild fox calls.
You struggle against temptation and change,
and I yield always. I made the moon,
and you stepped on it.
You are charming. Your hair is shiny.
And your heart beats. Why won’t you love me?