Rid of you

I wrote a poem once, about how every 7 years we renew our cells, and the pieces of me that once touched you are gone and replaced.

And yet,

I feel those that linger and that knew your breath and your skin whispering your stories to my new cells.

I feel them filling up the new pieces of me with fairy tales of you.

They wait until I’m asleep to connect across crevices and dimples and birthmarks to trade long ago tales of your touch.

I thought that in 7 years I would be a new me and thus be rid of you.

But my body is conspiring against me to make sure you are never a memory but instead a constant thought, a spectre, who’s touch is as near as it always was.

What a fool I was.