beginnings

I don’t believe in endings, by which I mean, 
it’s difficult for me to believe in endings 
by which I mean, I have known many 
so-called endings, and can  

no longer see why it was an end 
when I began then.
 
A segue- the end of a thread 
tucked in my eye where I could 
track where it came from. Or a messy, 
frayed bit I licked a few times before 
 
placing in an envelope I folded into my curly hair: 
my hair is long enough, I can hold all the 
love letters I’ve sent now.
 
At night I let my friend untie me 
and read the words that mean 
an ending that never came-
just the beginning of  
 
finding us. Funny to me how
I am so much myself 
with another, the
 
many, so-called endings 
in the making of. 

I want to remember this 
when what I love must 
inevitably transform, and 
change is the only thing 
 
that stays. To ask
I still love what is left
of before/ a wave

on these soft sands
comes again.