Who Are You

​I see you standing—

Tall as a tree, soft as a pillow,

Drawing air, vibrating quietly.


​So I ask:

Who are you?


​Are you a wall?

Are you a tree?

Are you a machine?

Please, do not answer.


​Something moves.

You speak, and I hear

Sounds known yet forgotten—

High and low, a whisper, a call.


​Something resonates within.

I recognize the words,

Uncomprehending, until

A single tone connects.


​An intimacy blooms.

I know these vibrations

As if I have held them forever,

Since the moment I awoke.


​All of you seems stranger still,

Save for your eyes—

Deep, boundless, endless.

I am no longer myself.


​You move.

Everything shifts.

Stillness lives only here,

Never out there.


​The moment arrives,

Drawing you beyond sight.

You fade into the dark.

Who were you?


​Left only with an idea,

A memory, a lingering thought,

An experience, a shape of absence—

Where did you go?


​Nowhere. You never left.

Your form recedes, your words dissolve,

Yet I know you exist,

And I know I am.


​You are as real as I.

You are my quiet illusion—

Not separate, not distinct,

Bound as one with me.

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