If I named the point when I became i, you'd laugh- it's something so small something so pale, something like smoke, something like mist, mist rolling like jello off the pier on the day when I noticed these hands were made to fit yours.
you cringe, you back away-- you wave limply and say, I've got something (or rather) to do.
your smile sinks, the mist obscures you... you start to walk away.
But these hands were made to fit yours.
to anchor you in the wind and place you in the mist, to strengthen you when the undertow strains to settle you when you cower at the roar of the lightning-god.
to prepare you for that day when I will not be i and you will not be you and such simple things as love will be lost to such meaningless things as your alarm clock, my word processor, our fears-become-lives.
These hands were made to fit yours and will never lose their shape but in a moment, a month, or years, we will no longer see those days when love was life and life was free.
and that these hands were made for thee.
go slow, dear, and don't make it seem like the world's pressing down upon you like a thousand angry angels---- once I sniffed a yellow flower when winter roared around me..
one petal rested in the air above me.
You take your problem, finger every curve and crevasse in it-- again, again! how you must whimper, alone in your own riverbed-- but the empty freezer you think you are needs defrosting.
once I held those fingers in mine and they were warm.
go slow, dear-- close your eyes when the snow chafes against your cheeks- sniff the air when the ocean...