I often wonder how many body shells of mine
lurk around, unoccupied,
from all the times I have shed my skin.
I know that if I cast my gaze to the stars
I see, what appears to be, constellations.
Each light appearing close enough to touch
what looks to be, its neighboring star,
seeming to know each other,
gathering in clusters, shapes and designs.
But those lights, we know,
(though we are tricked to believe they could be
of the same body, of the same imagery)
stand light-years away belonging to different homes
unaware of the aliens on earth
drawing a line to connect them to each other.
I feel far displaced from the flesh I used to wear.
Yet, my timeline draws a short line
from her
to me.