I want to be what you saw in me—
the bright and energetic, frizzy-haired bundle
of young woman with the too-big glasses
who was still so much girl, one who
had so much to live and learn.

But something in you found something
in me that pulled you in my direction,
like the tide tugging you where you
didn’t plan to go. And, perhaps
marooned for a time, you stayed
to explore this uncharted me, as I
toured the undiscovered parts of you.

What you saw in me, what I saw in you
I can no longer name, though I’d like to.
It’s all awash in the passing decades,
in the daily motion of tides, some high,
some low, some extremes of each.
But I suppose it doesn’t matter.

We are not the same creatures, given
that our cells entirely replace themselves
over time—skin cells every two to four weeks,
red blood cells about every four months.
Bones regenerate constantly but can take
a decade to completely replenish, though
neurons in the brain can last a lifetime

You, embedded bone deep, into the fabric
of my brain, remain forever—or at least
until this body that once loved yours
lets go, repurposing our atoms, which,
thanks to the physics of the universe,
will echo through space for eternity.

All we will be one day is light and air,
floating, as we once did, in each other.