You are the entire universe
and I'm not even a crack in the sidewalk,
stepped across without a passing glance.

You are the Empire State Building, rising high through the clouds,
and I am nothing more than a checkout desk,
made to get people what they need to keep them happy.

You are the sun, the ultimate need,
and I'm simply a grain of sand,
burning others on some beach out in Florida.

You are Starry Night
every brushstroke carefully planned out by Van Gogh himself,
but I am merely a macaroni doodle, crumpled under the refrigerator joined by lost magnets and forgotten finger paintings among grimy dust and melted ice cubes kicked recklessly across the floor.

You say that you are nothing,
so tell me how come I still encounter your recollection
in everything I happen to stumble upon.