The brain gnashing in disbelief, the void,
ice blue tile rising up to meet me halfway.
Light's gradual, reluctant opening.
But it isn’t too long before a toolkit
replaces doubt and I set about puttying holes
with gray tears, scraping the surface smooth again.

Your eyes are yawning fields, inviting
even a mere shaft of attention. They dilate,
drinking in color, laces, the silence after
a morning dove’s coo. Soon we burrow
through snow banks, you pushing aside cold
cotton tufts, taking care my path is clean.

Memory cries out, but sensation, in its orange
hue, wins. The weight of your fingertips, nearly
imperceptible, becomes as solid, expected,
as earth. It starts with anticipating your
expression, learning its echoes arrange my own.
In the beginning, every end.