Everything falls apart. Everything.
The house, the marriage, the cells that cling
to cohesion like a prayer,
but entropy does not negotiate or care.
The second law is the cruelest scripture ever penned—
the universe sliding toward its disordered end,
and the body is a temporary argument against
the chaos that will win, the only real expense.
The roof goes first. Then hair. Then the foundation cracks.
Paint bubbles, peels away, the walls reveal their rot—
soft decay and ruin, the house returns to earth
the way the body does, with that same methodical sound
of nothing holding, nothing gripping, nothing left to bind,
the universe dissolving into its most comfortable kind:
disorder. Randomness. The patient dark.
Entropy never hurries. Entropy doesn’t mark
time the way we do—it’s not in any rush.
It eats the smile last, after it finishes with the flesh,
after the walls come down and the last light fades away,
after the stars forget the names we gave the constellations.
I am falling apart right now.
You’re too.
The difference between us and the dead
is the rate of the falling.