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.

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