The House of My Heart

Your body is a billion years old

if you consider the ingredients.

Bound to eternity and finite form, we are

nothing new, my sweet. We may have met before—

you as cactus wren and me as saguaro skeleton.

We are ancient seas, minerals altered,

we are vitamins and gutter water.

Someone else's energy, photosynthesis, and time

is pulled away from me

like the tide, ungraspable and rhythmic

or like the sun going down,

afternoon light spilling through the blinds

like broken egg yolk, dripping through my fingers;

I am slipping through time.

Gravity pulls me closer, a possessive lover,

and in the meantime you pour honey

into the cracks between the fragments of matter

that have composed me, and I whisper,

welcome to the house of my heart,

we will unravel and we will start

to become again and again and again.