Time

it seems impossible to me
that time had a beginning,
like a mouth that's never known
the wetness of another's tongue.
how could time begin
without there already being
time to begin with,
like a hand that's never grasped
the curve of a lover's spine?
in the dark of my own
making I search for a start,
but every thread I pull
unravels into the same
endless fabric of want.
maybe time is a body
that's always been fucked
open by the universe,
its entrance a wound
that never closes.
or maybe it's a mouth
that's always been hungry,
gaping to consume
the very moment it's born.

either way it's a cycle
of craving and collapse,
a rhythm that's always
pulsing through my veins
like the beat of my heart,
which is also a kind of
beginning that's never
truly begun.