You were a vision in 18 hole shiny, black boots and black t-shirt with beautifully pale arms and black- perfectly black- hair that fell into your eyes with each stride.

And then suddenly you were there, at the table, all business-like and looming. And I knew it was a front, that the words coming from your dark, full lips had been planned and worked out, wonderfully rehearsed. And I smiled the most stupid smile and thought, He's Byron. And he's so fucking beautiful.

-And you, poor you, when I accidentally let slip that I thought you looked like Byron. You had only ever seen that one painting of him in your text book- the one where he's all dressed up and ridiculously stern and sporting a silly, little moustache. You didn't get it or at least thought I was saying something funny or witty. You didn't know the Byron I knew.-)***

But it didn't start then. It started before then, before I even knew you, met you or had talked to you.

More than twins, you and I- much, much more than that. I created you and you created me. I looked for you in school hallways, on streets, in movie theatres. I was never alone but only missing you, your voice, your hair, your arms- I could swear that I sometimes saw you out of the corner of my eye but you would vanish before I even thought of turning to look. I knew you existed, but where, where would I ever find you.

And when I first saw you, I lost myself and didn't trust what I knew, what I knew I knew.

And until two weeks ago, I had convinced myself that you only loved me because I had made you. I didn't know that you had made me too.

There are only beginnings with you and I. Each day is a new beginning. Each night too.

Do you remember when I laid you down on the bed and undressed you, took you inside me and then slipped my legs between yours and fucked you as though your cock was mine, one that I had been born with? I was the boy and you were the girl and then we were neither. Sometimes I can't remember whose parts are whose. None of it matters. We are the same, always. You are me and I am you and we fuck ourselves into blindness and devastation.

You make heterosexuality a perversion, like a beautiful cut on top of a purple-blue bruise- it aches and burns at once- this defiance against nature and against order.

My Byron, how very wrong and very right we are, you and me.