God,
was I created,
or a piece of rock
that grew tired of waiting?
How many steps does nothing take,
until it leaves tracks?
I don’t believe I can be made.
Too many pieces coming together
in too many ways.
And then,
where did the heart begin?
Was that my idea?
To feel love.
To feel what a day feels?
Is there an equation
that writes that large?
That chases its tail like pi,
but never forgets
what it’s doing?
Do things really get made, God?
Did it take forever to make me?
Then why,
if it took the lifetime
of a universe,
to put me here,
must my life be so short?
A few moments.
A love affair,
and tomorrow,
nothing left of me.
How did you manage that, God?