All of me is not me

All of me is not me. These hands are not me,
these eyes. This crinkling, whitening hair,
the teeth crowding closer together,
laughter slipping from between my lips
are not me

because if they were, I knew you,
but since I don't anymore, and they did
they can't be me.
That me, that memory me made up
of fingers and skin knew you.
Not this me.

I used to know your name.
Hafiz whispered it between stanzas
he picked out for me
to read to you.

I used to know how your back rippled.
Your bones and muscles and supple skin
reached for my hands, asking
if we wanted to know, and we did
both without hesitation.

My fingerprints say it's the same.
They claim that, by typing, I'm the same
person as the neurons firing in my brain
that remember the you-ness
who you once were

but I know better. That was once-you,
not now-you, that I now know.
Now-you is a recorded voice.
Now-you has lips
that don't reach my ears.  Now you
know that all of me is not me
not anymore
than you are a photograph

or I am a memory.