I do not know you the way a morning glory knows the sunlight: dependent, wilted in its absence. Nor do I know you the way a vowel knows its predecessor: dependent, indifferent to chance. Still, I know you. The way a palm knows Each singular line that runs down the twin fingers of its opposite, independent yet inseparable. Parallel creases of experience, your hands rewrite language by their subtle movements— Alluding to a oneness that scatters once it is spoken, a secret dialect that spreads from your fingertips into mine, sending signals up my outstretched arms. Reflexively, I trace the outline of your presence. I do not know you apart from the way I know myself. At times, I yearn for the indifferent dependency of the morning glory, the formulaic way a vowel flirts with the past. Yet this can not be. To know you is to Become you (the contours of your fingerprint contains my very being). To know you is to love you entirely. Lose my singularity, to take your hands and place them decidedly over my eyes, look out into Eternity: the world filtered through your presence—our harmony—this is how I know you.