Bodies are bodies. Don’t confuse me with mine. There is slender thread holding me here, entwined in loops of my spirit. Each time you caress my face, when you look in my eyes, you might see me, feel me but remember that this is just a sliver. Morsel drip of who I am, who I might be. These arms utilize, shelf immortality, and when change comes and knocks swiftly on my door, I won’t be afraid to leave. Age is not a disease. Nature resides in my bones, in the warmth of my surface and the bed of my nails. I watch it as it disintegrates and floats into particles of air. Barely there, when I dream, I disappear. There is an edge to living, a fear of loss but this body does not encompass me totally. Parts separate and explore, unencumbered by the floor. I am fighting the urges to compare to other bodies out there. I wonder if the ghosts within haunt them, if they feel trapped by the form fitting skin. As I grow, I release my grip on staying, or going, just allowing the flow of life to flow through me, buzzing under the surface. I am neither here or there, sometimes the wind in my own hair.