“Our lives are intertwined,” he says,
and I remember how far I have gone
and the pieces that I have left behind before,
the pieces of me that I have given
to others before him,
and I wonder if he knows
that he’s getting a chipped package,
worn and shattered by life,
some edges carved off
to fit the curve of another.
I’ve shaped myself like that before.
Yes, I have woven myself into your fabric,
I think, but I have tied no strings.
I am too hesitant now,
to give myself again like that.
And while our lives are intertwined
you are not the first boy
whose fingers have interlaced mine like that.