You could call memories of the past by many different names.
For instance foresight, which is like a memory turned around the whole circle.
A bludgeon, a nostalgia (which would make me feel easy, at, peace, at home in a memory, the memory of a place and a time, a space lost, a lost space that is uninhabitable, a lost-in-space time span) which does not draw me away gently, but separates fibers and tendrils which do not bind but create succors in my hair, like spouts of optimism or yearning despair depending on the moisture because I remember a time when I only had an idea of your existence and you did not know that I was there and thinking very hard. And I am here. But you were not there. But you are here.
And poetry, and poetry.
My limbs are self aware
and every pore speaks and sings
each hair stands in its root
which contains a direct conduit
to white nerves white ligament
you caress, pluck, sing into with light.
Our lungs are symbiotic creatures
which sustain one another underwater
equally
and do not discuss the baser organs
such as the pancreas and do not speak.
Not at all.

The teeth represent humility,
which resembles fully-fledged snap peas and lightness.

I refuse to compare something like your chin to something like a mountain.

The hands are all of the things
which they contain, such as birds
or leaves or tree bark.
And radiating outward from the palm are fingers
the fingers sense and palpate and know everything,
realize everything but say very little (which is due to their kindness and wisdom).

Though the flesh is tender and lustrous
(its softness is forty lambs)
it is not your throat that sings.

I would know,
like gold or gold's metaphor
or the metaphor of a forest cleared away or
vines that hold fruits of rare geometry and
every branch weighed down by a
yield of fruit, immense, I eat
over and over, the fruit delicious and
unblemished and juicy, I would know like a flood.

And so I breathe you in,
leaving secret messages in your spine.