Genesis by Tawni Waters


I say I fell in love with you
the night I first saw you standing, singing, under halo-wearing stars,
but that is not true.

I first loved you a billion years ago when you exploded from the sun,
a molten bit of lava. I,
a one celled creature, knew

nothing but the sea that swallowed me and you burning beside me.
Even then, when I had no eyes,
your light blinded me.
And now, when I am me, this girl wearing a flesh sack, the parts of me that see better than eyes stare back through time, knowing you have not
been mine, exactly.  You have been me always.  Your light was the thing that called me forward from birth to birth , to dig my painted toes into

sand and sea on a blue ball called earth.  And when I say I love anyone else I am lying, or reducing love to the quaint vernacular of the sightless.

Love is not a tie you can pick from a rack because it matches your shirt better than the others.  It is molten magic that pulls you forward through

time.  It is evolution.  It is “let there be light.”  So when I say I love him or him or him, it is laziness that drives me to it, a desire to give up my sight and sleep

soundly with the mannequins, pretending the blue ball is all there ever was.  But my hidden eyes always know.  I did not come here for

him or him or him.  I exploded into life for you.  The first cell that was me divided at the mention of your name, and this thing that I am now will divide

again and again and again
until our love explodes
like the dying sun we are,
fills the night sky with stars.