remember me

Perhaps we are sewn like a thread through life, disappearing to appear again, coming from the back side of everything's fabric. I don't know, but if we are thus stitched along through time, it hardly signifies that we are embroidered here together. I feel more as if you coming and going through this world before me was only meant for a catalyst, a brief womb, igniting me and throwing me away from you into the great expanse, mercifully, kindly, telling me to live, as one might throw a weak thing away from death.

Because otherwise, I might forget that I am coming alive and not folding away.  I might fail to bloom in the spring of the year.  I might instead fold my hands with yours, and make my last bed with you.  I might so easily, clinging to your spirit, forget that we are not one, that I cannot be you.  I cannot go with you through that needle stitch to the back side of things.

You touch me and must go away from me.  Maybe there are some sixty years before me without you, and maybe there will be centuries, eons, since we touched for a moment before rushing away to different harbors.  Do you even now remember me?