You ask what I’ll miss about this life.
Everything but cruelty, I think.

But you want one specific thing,
so here—I’ll miss my body. I’ll miss

its companionship, how it’s traveled
with me, never leaving me—& by me,

I mean my mind. My soul? My self?
I don’t know what to call it, and besides,

my body hasn’t traveled with me.
I’ve traveled inside it. Do I wear it

or does it carry me? Is the body a suit
or a suitcase? Bear with me here.

I’ve always thought of who I am
as being concentrated in my head & chest,

as if there’s a waterline at my ribcage
& contrary to their density, thoughts

& feelings stay afloat. You asked
what I’ll miss about this life, and now

I’m way down a rabbit hole, wondering
if I could breathe deeply enough

to redistribute my mind more evenly
throughout my body—or soul rather

than mind? Or self? I don’t even know
what to call the me of me. I imagine

filling my body completely, filling it,
every inch, to the skin. Shh. Listen.

Ideas are whispering in my wrists
and all along the slopes of my calves.

When you lay your head on my thigh,
when you kiss the backs of my knees, listen.

I’m trying to tell you what I’ll miss—
everything but cruelty, but mostly this.