At The End

At the end
or perhaps, the beginning,
there was me
and you,
a boy,
a girl,
stuck on the edge
of a wheel,
feet skimming the grass,
hovering,
staring.
Hands itching closer,
closer,
fingers stretching
as much as fingers can,
bones pressing at the fabric of skin
until nothing
except a spark,
static,
the universe itself,
lay between the outstretched hands
And the wheel turned,
grass brushing
bare feet,
soft skin,
and the distance grew,
shrunk,
melted away
in the mist of the day
that had become night
in the time it took
for two hands
to touch,
for fingers
to brush,
for a beginning to end
and an end to begin
and a wheel to turn
the cycle again.

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