This is not the love story our younger selves tried writing,
the one we cut our teeth on,
that climaxed at I love you,
with bells and rice and rose petals,
happy ever after pasted on page 3, and all the book to go.
There is no fairy tale for this,
nor map, nor guide,
nor wise old guru to dispense advice.
This is new,
the three-strong cord reworked
into a different tie,
unblest but no less binding –
a lock of hair curled round a gentle finger;
the imprint of a suture
the long red thread of memory…
We are not our One True anythings.
Yet We are as true,
as one,
as all our anythings
before.
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