Entropy Skin

Entropy Skin

It begins at the smallest level,

a shift you cannot see,

atoms loosening their quiet grip,

on what they once held together.

There is no warning in the bloodstream,

no alarm in the bone,

just a slow unravelling of order,

a truth written in every cell.

They call it entropy,

a simple word for a brutal law,

that all things move toward disorder,

that nothing built can stay built.

I have carried that law within me,

felt it in the late hours,

when thoughts scatter without pattern,

and nothing arranges itself into peace.

Carbon forms the body,

strong, adaptable, enduring,

yet even it returns to dust,

to something less than memory.

Oxygen feeds the quiet fire,

keeps the system moving, alive,

yet it also writes the ending,

in slow invisible corrosion.

There are reactions happening now,

beneath the surface of skin,

bonds forming, bonds breaking,

a constant negotiation with decay.

And still we speak of permanence,

as if structure is a promise,

as if time has ever agreed,

to leave anything untouched.

I have tasted the science of endings,

in the back of the throat,

a metallic knowing that lingers,

long after the moment has passed.

If love is chemistry, as they claim,

a balance of charges and attraction,

then why does it fail so unevenly,

why does it collapse without symmetry?

Why does one remain intact,

while the other dissolves completely,

like a compound exposed too long,

to an atmosphere it cannot survive?

In the end, all systems open,

all order bleeds into chaos,

and we are left holding fragments,

that no formula can rebuild.

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