I love my body.
I loved it before, too,
when it was all thin lines and scruff
and I was finally embracing my Y
(with no shortage of retrospective irony).
Legs which carried me into mountains and across finish lines,
arms with biceps just the right size
to spin humans into bear hugs no matter their size —
not too tall or short,
thin or fat,
moving catlike through dance floors and canyons and
hearts with ludic vim.
I am him
and he was me
and it was good.
And I love it now —
angles slowly giving way to curves,
a merging of lithe form and liminality
defined neither by a start or end