This wasn't the way I wanted to feel or be.
There wasn't a way that I could believe in me.
Last Saturday, I woke up at 7 in the morning
To finish reading the book, "Everything Matters!"
By Ron Currie Jr. in my bathroom
And when I arrived at the climax
And the ominous narrator postulated its theorem
On the importance of everything,
And how it matters not in spite but because it ends,
I broke down and cried on the toilet,
And I thought about chance,
And how I picked up this book on a whim,
And I thought about time
And how it's a book,
A collection of words
Arranged to form a sentence,
And a collection of sentences
Arranged to form a paragraph
And etc., etc., until you get to a chapter
And no matter how many times
You finish your favorite book,
You can still revisit your favorite chapters,
Getting lost in the lines that you love,
And how your favorite sentence
Can feel like its own novel,
And how it feels like I've been talking for hours
When it's only been one minute,
And how this poem is just one run-on sentence,
Severed and skewed to invent one stanza
And even if we put it back together,
It will be just one, and still end, and still matter
Because everything matters.