how about instead of beginning, we continue from what always existed inside us. we were both just waiting to meet.

To no one in particular, the poet says:

If only I could lose all my words, soak them in bleach of forgotten cries so that when I speak them again to you, they will still have their roots dripping as I press them against your chest. Our mouths will stink of soil and earthworms. We will know nothing of scars or bruising or words like provocation. Everything will be dressed in unworn rhythm. How much does all this cost? How much to traumatize a memory so distinctly that it no longer howls.