Where were you, before
you arrived? I spoke to you,
feeling you were there, wondering
when I would finally meet you.
I thought I knew you.
We spoke many times,
through cycles of bloody
heartbreak, through the steam
of the shower, through the cracks
on the bedroom ceiling shape-shifting
in the sleepless streetlamp light.
Where were you?
You did not arrive, I suppose,
until you were ready. The You
of my heart then met the You in
my arms—your dark wispy hair,
your tiny soft perfect toes, your
mercury eyes squinting at the light,
your lips chewing on thoughts I
wasn’t privy to. You were a marvel,
perfect and unknowable.
You still are.
Since then your body has
stretched, strengthened and
elongated, cracking and
shifting, casting off versions
that didn’t fit. I watch your
eyes now, wide and brown and
warm, sparkling with joy to see
things so fresh and new. As this
new You emerges, I understand
I don’t know this You, either. For
now, at least, you are here with me
and finally present.
Where are you going? I could not
follow before and I cannot follow
now, but I feel, at last, that we are
together—that you take part of me