I told you once about the inevitable heat death of the universe,
that there is nothing we can do to slow or stop
the dissolution of all matter; it is coming.
In the meantime,
I find no concept that deepens my hunger so well
for my share of joy and pleasure and awe.
I will reach down and pull it out of you by the root
because I believe your share is coming, too.
The very fact of us, of all of this,
is a miracle, you see.
There is a void on either side of this blip of consciousness
and an urgency to leave behind something that matters.
But whether that legacy is genetic or memetic,
It is all coming to the same zero-balance.
I have tasted the smoke at the back of your throat,
and you told me that, if there is such a thing as luck,
then yours has run out.
But, by virtue of my own rose-colored nihilism,
I know better, for two reasons:
One, that I have peered out into the Deep Field,
and seen just how much matter fills that supposed void.
And two, you showed up on my doorstep in spite of everything.

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