When you read this,
I will be no more than a memory,
a whisper in the wind,
an abstract perspective
held in the palm of your hand.

I am nothing
but what you make of me,
an image born
from neuron synapses:
brain birthed from brain, 
mind melded with mine.
I shed individuality
in the arms that caress
my words, thoughts, prayers.

When you read this,
I will be gone;
In your eyes, I begin anew,
an idea anchored by
ink and page.