Your Atoms are Drunk and in Love with You.

You,…yes, you, pretending not to check your own reflection;
are seven octillion unruly accomplices
currently operating under your name.

Before they were you, they toured:
crowd-surfing supernovae, heckling gravity,
getting light-headed on nebulae,
mock-up planets, flirting with the dark.
Now they draw wages in your hands, your lungs,
that peculiar brain that wakes at 3 a.m. to replay
saying “you too” to a waiter who said “enjoy your meal.”

Each blink: the universe one-eyed, taking aim at a kiss.
Each laugh: infinity sloshing its drink.
You’re not in the cosmos so much as on its payroll;
paid in breath, spending it quickly.

And here’s the turn no telescope catches:
those atoms didn’t cross light-years to make a souvenir.
They came to be spent on something that can say yes or no.
So spend them.

Spend them on the text trembling in your draft,
the apology that stings like swallowed stars,
five extra minutes with grief's quiet ghost,
the vow you chase though certainty eludes.

Be precise about your absurdity.
Love like a meteor with bad brakes.
Let the impact rearrange the landscape,
then sign your name in the new dust
so everyone knows who finally showed up.

F.S.F