If there ever was a day

When our roots did not tangle together

I, a crooked juniper and you

The softest primrose,

I cannot remember that day.

If there was a time when

We could say “This is where love begins,”

When my bed was the whole one,

With no one to lay to the left of me,

I have chosen to forget.

We are confluent rivers

That have pushed our silt

together in torrents,

And have washed our lazy days.

And we can no longer separate

the two.

Love is history.

It is the battles and conquests.

It is a Spartan drum.

It is the comfortable silence we whisper

In our own language

so only the other can hear.