Your Multitudes and My Multitude Make Us Infinite
Poetry and Prose by Britt Wolfe
I was never one thing.
Even before you, I was a congregation of selves —
the child who flinched at thunder,
the woman who became the storm,
the dreamer, the realist, the keeper of impossible maps.
Every version of me humming in unison,
trying to find a single note that could hold them all.
And then there was you.
You — whose laughter carries the sound of forgiveness,
whose quiet contains entire philosophies.
You — who hold contradictions like a compass,
always pointing toward truth,
even when it breaks you.
I have watched you wrestle your shadows
with tenderness instead of shame,
and I have loved you for the way you stay kind
even when the world tries to make you small.
When your multitudes met mine,
it was not collision —
it was recognition.
A gravitational pull between two vastnesses
that understood the other’s language.
You became the mirror that reflected
not what I was,
but everything I could still become.
With you, even my fractures learned to shine.
Love, I have learned, is not possession.
It’s the expansion of capacity —
for empathy, for patience, for awe.
It’s the soft, endless labour
of learning the constellations in another’s chaos
and finding yourself among the stars.
Together, we are not halves of a whole.
We are galaxies in orbit,
each complete,
but incandescent in proximity.
Our gravity shapes the light itself.
Our connection is not a binding —
it’s an unbinding.
It frees us into something vaster than being alone.
You bring your multitude —
the cynic, the dreamer, the poet, the builder.
I bring mine —
the warrior, the wanderer, the child still asking why.
And between us,
a universe unfolds that did not exist before.
I look at you and see infinity learning my name.
I look at me and see reflection, not containment.
We are not a single story.
We are the library.
Every volume of who we have been,
every unwritten page of who we will be,
bound not by certainty,
but by wonder.
When I say I love you,
I do not mean I love what I can hold.
I mean I love what I can’t.
The mystery, the multiplicity,
the ever-changing geography of you.
The infinite in your ordinary.
The universe expanding
every time you breathe.
And if there is heaven,
it must look like this —
two multitudes entwined,
endlessly learning,
endlessly becoming,
endlessly beginning.
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Poetry Anthologies by Britt Wolfe
