Every seven years our bodies are reborn,
every cell replaced with a new one.
I’m afraid I will wake up years from now
with a new person grown around me,
that you will be left dusty particles under my bed,
that the layers of me will not know you.
That this body may not know you.
That these hands may not have touched you.
I hope you keep finding creases to hide yourself in,
that I see you unexpectedly in the mirror,
that you never come off in the shower,
won’t scrub at the thought of you,
won’t scratch out of instinct.
Hope you stick around.
Hope I can still feel you all over
in the next evolution of my body.
Want you with me
like whatever remains
through every seven year battle of becoming.
That in our first breath, we say:
it was worth it.
If only for the glory
in keeping something beautiful