Shorelines and skylines and
star-lines (the ship kind)
and nothing ever seems to cross
or come together, grand and
expansive as it/they is/are,
no touch or tender caress between them.

Infinities, it seems.
Never clashing, only extending
everywhere and nowhere, like
all infinities must.
And here we are as specks.
And here we are as passers-by.
And we’ll have none of it.
And baby, we’ll have it all.