reread them a thousand times

Who are you, really?
You’re not a name your parents chose according to their personal attachments in life
You’re not a birth date,
or a temporary age,
or a simple cluster of billion cells,
or even a species
You’re a collection of everything you love
You’re the books that you stayed up all night long reading since you couldn’t just put them down
You’re the songs that you sing along to the radio and surprise yourself by remembering the lyrics perfectly
You’re the cities you’ve visited and roamed the streets of and fell in love with
You’re the stars that you’ve stood awed by and gazed at unaware of the time passing
You’re the quotes that halt you and force you to reread them once, twice, 3 times, a thousand
And the paintings you’ve admired from afar
You’re the sun rises that you’ve fought sleep at night to witness
And the movies you never get tired of watching
And the places you’re welcomed at because of how frequently you visit them
And the carefree dances you swayed on crowded dance floors
You’re the memories you’ve crafted with the people around you
And the inside jokes you’ve shared with someone on a boring saturday afternoon
And mostly, you’re so full of pieces of the people you love most, and the people who love you back
You carry pieces of them in a habit of theirs that you picked on,
a word you’ve learnt from them,
a song that reminds you strictly of them
a story you’ve told a thousand times about that one time where they downright embarrassed you
You are everything and anything that you’ve ever loved,
So darling you’re really not a single thing - but rather a million