I convinced a scientist to unstitch my DNA,

to tell me what it said inside, and when she

translated the nucleotides, A-T-C-G,

from Morse into the mother tongue, she

told me that I was written for you.

I think I found your name written in my veins, maybe

in some old dead language, but I know it was yours. The

letters branched out like saplings in the way your name

leaves little plants growing from my tongue that

blossom into sweet honeysuckle, making me salivate.

The spaces between my outstretched fingers were

deep and narrow valleys of spaces, whispering

to be filled. Before you were mine, you held my

hand and I hushed as I saw that my fingers’

valleys were made to keep yours in mine.

When I found you, I unearthed the last bone of

my skeleton, the 206th piece of me. When I saw you,

I brushed the dust away from my bare calcaneus and

found that I was, yes, of Homo sapiens, and so were you,

and that I was born to know you and love you.