And as you age and gather adjectives
and purpose weathers to its random form,
to something unconcerned with that which lives,
as fierce as dew, forgiving as a storm,
remember not to think of me at all.
I won’t remember you and how I miss
and missed you all those missing years,
and finally together, we won’t kiss
and be apart forever. No one hears
and no one hurts at no one’s call.
You wouldn’t recognize me now. I’ve gone—
become reflection in an ink black plane—
but I’ll know you, each time you breathe, I’ll know,
and you’ll know me in every age again.