I think about a girl sixteen years ago
and how all the skin and hair on her
that I touched and loved and smelled
is now gone.
It has all fallen off her along the way,
every piece of her that I saw then,
and it is strange to think
that she is still alive somewhere
while all of the pieces I touched and knew
have become dust upon the earth.
We are not so different from the walking dead, then,
shedding our bodies as we go.
We trace ourselves within imaginary boundaries,
circling back a line of history,
so we can say,
Here is where I am.
I have been here all along.