When space was giving birth
to the stars for the first time
I saw you there, playing with
a fireball that glowed
in a color yet to be defined
by a spectrum.
You looked at me looking at you
and you fumbled the orb
into the darkness;
it zipped out the spiral
with the rest,
a simulacrum.
You made an effort to smile
without a mouth,
without a body, really,
without mass,
but I understood your energy
like I had before and after.
I extended my arm without an arm,
without the muscles needed to extend an arm,
and with what I thought was a reflection
of your smile;
I asked you to dance
with me
as the beginning was beginning
in an orchestra of light.
You told me shyly
that you didn't know how to,
and I understood
because the explosions had no sound.
But, you didn't let go of me
and I thought that was the first sign,
before language and love.
I pulled you into my gravity,
and our dance was
the first revolution
around the point
where everything was,
where everything again will be.
And as the dance floor
was clearing and expanding
you smiled again that smile
and you became comets
and planets,
satellites and stars...
and, before I too transformed,
I knew I would dance
with you again
at the end like the beginning.