Where the Crack Used to Be

At first
there was a beginning
that looked like an ending
rehearsed backwards.

Nothing resisted it.
Not even the air.

I entered it sideways,
as if direction were optional,
as if arrival could pretend
it never chose a path.

I called it new
because the word was available,
not because it fit.

The face appeared early—
too early—
already knowing its light,
already holding a version
of what it would later deny.

I adjusted nothing.
That was the adjustment.

A line formed
before it meant anything,
thin, obedient,
waiting to be believed.

I believed it.
Or acted like I did—
which, at that point,
was identical.

Time didn’t pass.
It repeated,
slightly rearranged,
with better posture.

Moments practiced themselves
in small mirrors—
gestures correcting gestures,
until correction became style.

No one asked for truth.
It would have interrupted.

So I offered sequence instead:
this, then this,
then something that looked like consequence.

The beginning stayed
because it performed well.

Even doubt learned its cue—
entered late,
soft voice,
convincing hesitation.

I nodded at it.
Agreement felt cleaner
than interruption.

Somewhere
a version of the moment
refused to cooperate—
too precise,
too still.

It was edited out.

What remained
was smoother,
almost honest,
the way a lie becomes honest
when repeated without friction.

I stood inside it
like a role
that didn’t need audition.

Name unnecessary.
Context excessive.

Only the motion mattered—
how the hand moved,
how the sentence curved away
just before meaning.

It worked.

Everything aligned
the way things do
when they are not questioned.

The beginning held.
Not because it was true,
but because it didn’t break.

And breaking
would have been real.

So I stayed.

Smiling,
not to hide—
but to continue.

The wall returned later.

The crack remembered me.

And the beginning—
still new,
still careful—
pretended
it had never been touched.