How can I know when is a beginning?
This word is an arbitrary line across the flow of time which only means, “this is where I start telling my story”
But our story doesn’t recognize lines and didn’t begin at the telling
we knew each other, that first time our hands touched
I was already myself when your skin met my skin
And there is no Me absent You
We didn’t come together the moment your words called me across the room
Your voice was my familiar home
I don’t even know the moment our dance began?
I only know the momentum of our feet,
the weight of our bodies,
the feel of my breath in your breath
The sound of our hearts beating wildly,
as my heart is beating now,
as your heart is beating now
Even our bodies cannot contain our story
How then could time,
which is, after all, small and myopic and secretive,
hold us in so small a place
as a beginning