was it you who wrote these things on me? was it?

today is an imagining and a wearing of time and together we waltz through the kitchen, me in my apron and time just tapping, keeping up with my awkward step. we stumble on the third step, the downward step, every time, though neither me nor time can figure it. there is the smell of onions frying and the sound of water as it reaches the tip of its boil and we had thought that that would be music enough but it isn't. the power is out and the lights are off so we are just feeling our way through this, just with bodies, the edges of them touching like a misjudged bird's wing, skimming the surface. we are learning a lot from one another, like how to breath and how to keep on breathing. in, then out. in, then out. with the third step there is a lot for us to concentrate on, and so i step back, stir the onions, and sit. i imagine the way i could just float out the window, taking time out with me, and the way that we would see many things. i imagine the way the cat would take it in her stride, seeing me and time leaving together, as if she had always known it would happen, that we were in love. we would take each others' hands, with thumbs wrapped in thumbs, and under us there will be the whole of the world. there is no way we could touch it, but just seeing is enough, just feeling the wind as it moves through bodies, hearing the rushing sound it makes, the whistle. later, years later, we might remember how we did that, or wanted to, and we might tell all our children of the way things were or might have been. the way time and i flew across everything and didn't change a thing. the way we were carried.