Different

My fingers
used to know
the map of your skin,
the trails made of veins
lying under the surface.
Your skin is different now,
so curious
and foreign
and unknown.
Your scars have changed
and new ones appear
and I dont know your stories.
Are we really strangers?
Are we so distant
and the thread so worn
that our souls
are no longer entangle?
I’ve been thinking
about knowing
and not knowing
and how our puzzle pieces
may no longer create
a picture that makes sense
because I don’t know you.
You don’t know me.
And I wonder
if we do change
on the inside
as much as the outside.
Do the years
make our hearts
as scarred as our skin?
Can you love all the differences
as much as you loved
how I used to be?
Will the ocean
sound the same
as when we were last connected?
I can hear the crash
of the waves
on the moon-bright shore
and you look the same
even with the tiny wrinkles
near your eyes.
And you kiss my forehead
where that frown line
has started to show
and it’s like it was
and how it always has been,
always will be
even with all the
new and unknown.

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