If We Were Gods

We stand outside time,
where every when is now.
Make pronouncements,
make love,
kill thousands
just to hurt each other,
as if we were gods.
The usual.

He tells me again we need gravity
to know where we’re going.
We are careening about the universe,
nebula to nebula
in this galaxy and the next,
all at once.
I say that makes me sad,
it makes me think of falling into something,
infinitely.

He counters that he fell into love with me,
and he doesn’t mind that he’s always plummetting,
headlong toward some singularity
where all his paths converge.
Which means, of course,
all his paths,
even the ones on which he hates me
because I cheat on him
or mock his lack of confidence in himself,
and even the ones on which
he never met me at all.
He explains all this dismissively,
a single point may be intersected
by an infinite number of
lies.

If I fall infinitely, am I falling at all?
This is despair.

I skitter off to another star,
swirling my skirt with a giggle,
and he follows.
My hair flows around me
like a comet tail
and my face is lit up by the sun.
We dance around ourselves,
we build planets,
we set them spinning.
We make life and invent an end,
something fittingly catastrophic,
before diving into a nebula
where we clutch and roll each other
in a bed of star dust.

In due course he rips out my heart
and hurls it into space,
out of sight for a moment
until it blossoms as a supernova,
all blood-red and radiance.
We smile and our fingertips touch,
tentative, as we share our first kiss again
and an evening mist settles on the grass,
soon to be morning dew.

We are careless in our age,
and this is jubilance.