You showed up slow; no lightning, no thunder. Just your hands, the hands that I would grow to love, one nervous in your pocket, the other around a flower. It was a beginning so subtle, so quiet, that I could only assume it was no beginning at all; that we had made love in Athens while the Ottoman empire fell, that we had exchanged shy glances in the Île de la Cité, that we had wrought tears and laughter from one another with the pyramids looming over our shoulders.
I couldn’t tell you then that I knew, deep in my bones, that I had spent centuries playing a memory game with your details. That our first kiss was a reunion and our tongues sang coming home songs in each others mouth. And when I slept next to you for the first time, waking in that grey January light, the glance over my shoulder to your sleeping frame was a choreographed dance I had long since mastered.
I have no fear of losing you — you’ve been mine since we were stardust — and one cannot lose what has always been inside of them. The continent of your shoulder, the one where I rest my head, was the place I felt homesick for — the one I thought I had never been — but I fit there, knew its smooth line, settled into it like an apartment I had returned to.
When you touch me, sigh into the column of my neck, part my thighs with the hand that once held a carnation… I know you can feel it too. Your movements are weighted with history. My name, when you speak it, sounds like a psalm you are surprised to remember. And when we make love, sweet and heavy, I believe this world is a place for you and I — because it has been a place for you and I — time and time again.