There's a turning point on my tongue when I realize who you really are.

You appear to me in macaroni art, in fingerpaintings, in cracked iPhone screens.

I dream you in refrigerator word magnets / I read you in my favorite novel from age 13 and cry about it.

Your self-portrait is etched in my bottom-bowl bulimia at 2:07 AM. And guess what?

(I'm not entirely convinced that you didn't come crafted from the sea, slimy and sultry and green trails or tails surfacing to hold hands and jigsaw your human form.)

At night, I see lines of caterpillars leading from your belly button to be your matter. Excuse me? I am going through your life with a fine-toothed comb and knitting an afghan out of your DNA.

Drumroll, please! / I've got it -

You are 47 Autumns. You Are exactly as You Were.