Who am I?

Just make it to higher ground -escape the ever-rising tide -

higher ground every night

but it’s rising quicker now

the first time he didn’t make it

it took his ankle

achillec, but it grew back

then his leg

then his waist

his neck, nearly drowning in fear

yet he came to find out that as long as some piece of him made it past the water line

a finger, less, an eyelash

spit

a smell

a glimpse

he could grow back

and then, he found in the turmoil that even a flicker reflected in a mirror, the echo off a distant wall,

even that was enough to recreate him

now it’s only this story

you are what remains