Cycles

by PeriwinkleGeo

You’re older than I am. Older than my mother is. Older than my grandmother was.

You’re always changing, every day, every hour, every second, of every moment. You’re like me in that way, I suppose. They tell me my body renews itself every seven years–seven years ago the person here now wasn’t even a person. She hadn’t been made yet.

You have a cycle too. Did you know that? They say your currents take thousands of years to surface then sink. The piece of you here at my toes, we will not meet again. Not unless I bottle you up and take you home with me but then, well, you wouldn’t be you anymore, and I think you’d be sad.

If I come back in seven years, will you recognize me? When a different part of you touches a brand new me will you know, or will we touch again as strangers. The part of you I met before sinking to the bottom of your depths and the parts of me you touched before they were scattered in the sand, will they still be friends?

I wonder if some pieces of me are breaking away right now. If my skin, my hair, or my sweat rides away on your surf–If they become apart of you. I wonder if your salt or your spray soaks into me and follows me back home.

Do you ever wonder if we change together? In seven years maybe you will no longer recognize yourself, and in a thousand perhaps my journey will still be in its dawn.