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We continue to whirl past the horizon, too fast now to
make out any landmarks.
It isn't as if being with you will consist of great,
unending infinities of love. It's the ordinary things, the
minutes and seconds that show us the truth. And make us
I think of ladybugs, dust motes, of the galaxies that subatomic particles
whirl in. Are subatomic particles just further planets? Who would live
on these worlds? Would they think of us as we sit and watch tv? No.
If they think of us at all, it is the heroics that matter. Climbing
Mt. Everest, reaching the stars. Understanding the beings that call
us subatomic particles. They wouldn't dream of the routine,
the carrying in the morning paper, getting the coffee, waking up at
two am for a screaming child.
Truths, charms, beauties I mutter. How can these even
recognize our existence?
You lean toward me. What are you saying, you ask.
Nothing, I answer. Just naming the worlds
that inhabit us.