When Our Bodies Are Gone

He and I swap stories like spit
Laying on our backs with our arms around each other.
And I'm wondering what color his eyes are right now;
Brown with red, caramel undertones.
Mine are camera shutters;
Silver and yellow, reptilian.

My body is a construct for walking and talking,
Manipulating small objects with my fingers.
My body is designed to see over tall grasses, detect movement,
A vessel for human babies, a food supply,
An echo chamber, microphone, drum.
Your words beat on me in a staccato rhythm that reverberates,
Morphs, becomes something new and the same;
An amalgamation.
I am AI, machine learning, the algorithm.

And so is She in her slow and steady way;
Taking inputs and generating outputs.
A dolphin did not choose the sea, or its intelligence.
An orca did not choose to be a sleek and enormous harbinger of death.
There was space for them, an outlet,
Somewhere for the water of their genetics to flow
Slowly down molding into their current and ever evolving form.

And what about the ones who stay the same,
What of equilibrium, balance?
A give and take so nuanced and fine that it doesn't disturb the baby
As it rocks her cradle.
Can one argue for this over that?
Sudden change over a still and steady
Droning of cicadas over the eons?
Only She knows what is right and what will come
To fill the empty spaces.
Only She is comfortable with all outcomes.

She will be here when our bodies are gone.