oh, finite period, how you mock me.

you are an eternal reminder of the ending to everything human

(for my dream of orange peels forever unfurling

seems to have been an illusion, and even the words promising

forever fall flat: but i cannot sing, and the words

are music, so i dare not articulate.), and

the only thing that truly remains infinite is the

inevitability of the finite. (answer me now, stars, before

i shatter into the perfect square of a broken cube.) i

used to marvel at the absurdity of humans to arrange

the stars in constellations when it was

the randomness of their light that gave them

beauty, but now i marvel at the untampered

humanity that gesture implicates. (they say we are all

made of pieces of forgotten stars) and so saying, i

contort myself into a corner of a hopelessly naive

and imperfectly finite constellation composed of

human stardust.