And the universe was lonely.
Look at all of this. Galaxies pouring into one another.
Exploding stars.
Clouds of luminous dust.
A flower.
A rock.
A tree.
What will I do now, it said.
The universe is lonely.
And so,
on a little rock around a yellow star.
I’ll make someone to see it all.
People.
I’ll make somone to turn
and look
and see all that I’ve done.
And most of the time they’ll ignore it.
They’ll arise in the morning and pile into vehicles and drive to places and drive back again.
Not thinking about the sun that crosses the sky, or the moon that eclipses it.
Most of the time they will marvel at each other,
unaware that they are all, in the end, quite boring.
They’ll not think about the vast ocean just a few miles away.
The odd creatures that swim in it.
And then one night, they’ll stumble out drunk from a bar, lonely just like me.
And they’ll look up.
Peer through the haze of the streetlights and past the airplanes’ flashing lights.
And they’ll see me there.
The Universe.
And I will look back.
“My God.” They’ll say.
And that won’t be exactly right, but that’s okay.
And they’ll light a cigarette.
Exhale into the sky.
And they’ll move on.
Go home and sit in a chair, watch television, fall asleep in the chair.
It may be years before they look up again.
But it will be enough.
It will be something.
