Every bit of my body is new, untouched.

I am not the person that loved you,

I am not the person that you loved.

Every cell in my body is renewed

and every bit of me is over you.

Except my genetic blueprints –

those things that make me, me –

haven’t changed quite so much.

They tell me to keep being the person who loved you.

They tell me to try to live it all out again.

I have nothing of you left in me,

nothing in my heart that says you were there.

You are an intangible, foreign thing,

some pathogen that my body cannot recognize.

And yet in the back of my cell’s memory,

which it has attained through years of practice,

it can detect that you are different.

You are dangerous, you are disease-ridden,

but you are part of me nonetheless.

Not physically; it’s not hereditary.

You are just something that my blueprints always point to.

Something I once touched,

something I once loved.

Maybe, in your new heart, you can find that love again?

Maybe your cells can recognize me, after all?

Even if I’m not the same person anymore.


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