There is a boy
sitting across the table from me,
whose voice cracks like an old record
when he sings hymns and
kindness rests in the color of his eyes.
He is explaining to me that order
scientifically can’t come out of chaos,
how the big bang never really happened because of
the perfect order our lives are set up to be.
The way the consistent order of the solar system
helped humans create the concept of
days, months, and years.
We climbed a tree whose leaves mimicked the
sunset’s arrangement of colors;
we watched the sun simmer into the horizon,
watching this chaos of color come to an orderly end.
My life shifts from one chaotic moment into another.
I remember sitting next to him on the crowded bus,
sides pressed up against each other.
There in that small act, I found order.
However I worried because I heard on the radio
one hot summer ago that us as individuals
need chaos to grow,
but then my name fell from
his mouth and my mind is now repeating
itself with chaotic worries that I
may never find someone like him again.