{we’ve been us for eight years now.  or a dozen lifetimes, depending on how you measure.  births. deaths. non-profits.  divorce.  freefall. crash and burn.  beginnings and endings and beginnings.  falling in love and lust and hate and forgiveness. this day marks the day of your beginning, dear one.  I celebrate it, always.}

We discuss
often
our past lives.
the way we have
been lover
and mother
and child
and midwife
and brother
and husband
and guru
to each other
a dozen
lives
at least
before
finally
crashing
here
in this desert
we make home
despite the
fact that
our souls
never stop
calling
for the
sea

we once
decided
a book
we proclaimed
we will write
and remember
all that we
have been
and done
and learned
together
yes
we smiled
and leaned our heads
together
like we have done
a million
times
at least
your light
corkscrews
mingling
with my inky
strands
our mirror
souls
coming
info perfect
alignment

and although
in typical
flighty
fashion
we’ve not
written a word
it doesn’t
really matter
none of it
really matters
not with us
not the where
or when
or what or why or
how much
or the indecisive days
or the stagnant months
or the hard years
what matters is
the afternoons
in bed
doing nothing
and the way
we always
mean to say
one more thing
before handing up
the phone.
what matters is
the open door
at 2am, and
the hands that
shake with anger
heal with energy
and the way
without writing
a word
we already
know the ending
of the book

it’s us
of course
us and
the pounding
pacific
back to back
your light
corkscrew curls
once again
mingling with my
inky straight
strands
the salt on our skin
and in our veins
and the words we
say
that our
hearts have
always known.
Of course.  It
has always
been
you.