PORTRAIT OF THE UNIVERSE AS A SERIES OF IMPOSSIBLE PROMISES

Look, I would reorganize the whole goddamn solar system if I could.
I would grab planets by their throats and squeeze until they bled
stardust, would reach into the machinery of the universe
and rewire it, circuit by circuit, until all your hurts became
unmade things. But I can't. I can't. The truth is: my hands are just hands.
They shake when I'm nervous and they can't hold water without spilling
and they're always reaching for you in the dark. The truth is:
sometimes love looks like standing in a kitchen at 2 am,
watching you eat cereal straight from the box, and knowing
that all the constellations in the sky aren't worth half as much
as the way your hair falls across your face. The truth is: I keep
trying to give you everything and coming up short. Here's what I have:
these ordinary hands, this mouth that keeps saying your name
like it's a prayer, like it's the only prayer I know. Here's what I have:
this heart that won't stop hammering out its desperate morse code
of want want want. And maybe that's not enough. Maybe
you deserve someone who can touch starlight,
someone who can promise you the moon and actually deliver it,
wrapped in silver paper and tied with cosmic string theory.
But here I am instead, so fucking human it hurts, pressing
my lips to your temple like it's an altar, like maybe
if I kiss you soft enough you'll forget about all the miracles
I can't perform. Like maybe this kind of love—
the breakable, mortal, insufficient kind—
could be miracle enough.