Genesis by Nikita Eismont

And when the limitless everything split,

there were just the two of them. 

And the spring part asked, “Am I whole?”

And the autumn part replied, “We aren’t, not yet.”

And the heaven didn’t understand, “But we’re supposed to be.”

And the earth didn’t either, “We just were.”

And the odd sat down, “I feel weird.”

And the even worried, “I feel wrong.”

And the light pondered, “There were no ‘us’ just now.”

And the darkness noted, “But I existed.”

And the mountain related, “As did I.”

And the valley declared, “I wouldn’t mind reuniting.”

And the hard agreed, “I would like to reunite.”

And the soft asked, “Do we know how to?”

And the activity suggested, “We should talk some more.”

And the passivity shook her head in agreement.

And the south broke the silence yet again, “Do you like strawberries?”

And the north didn’t understand, “What's that?”

And the sun replied, “I don’t know.”

And the moon said, “I think I would.”

And the hot asked again, “Would you like wind?”

And the cold said, “I think I would.”

And the fire asked yet again, “Would you like hugs?” 

And the water thought for a minute and replied, “I think I would.”

And the rich asked once more, “Would you like bunnies?”

And the poor answered, “I think I would.”

“Would you like oatmeal?”

“I think I would.”

“What about oat-milk?”

“I think I would.”

“What about heterosexuality?”

“I don’t think I would.”

“Would you like music?”

“I think I would.”

“Would you like picnics?”

“I probably would.”

“What about weekends?”

“I think I would.”

“And candles?”

“I think I would.”

And so they went back and forth, slowly getting to know each other, slowly finding themselves to be closer.

And when one asked, “Would you like love?”

One replied, “We already do.”

From them came the wind, and from them came bunnies. From them came humans who went on picnics. From them came humans who listened to music. From them came humans and loved as they did and do to this day. And in everything you can think of, in every instance of being: in the rustling of the leaves, in the silence of the cliffside, in a child’s laughter and in the coughs of the ill — they continued their talks. The enlightened hear them often, but even I, as these letters are typed out, hear the birds sing and share in their love.