All the things you do—
echo like footsteps in ribs.
I am an idiot,
who doesn't know questions,
not the kind that make sense,
not the kind that leave answers.

Am I you?
Or are you me?
Or are we mirrors
cracked in different colors,
reflecting only where we broke?

A part of me
doesn’t want to see you—
but every part of me
craves that which is you.
I don’t know what’s breaking
or what’s already broken.
I only see tricks.

So am I tricking myself
to believe it’s love?
Is it madness?
It isn’t everything—
but in the silence, it becomes everything.
Sometimes
it’s a movement in static
I feel
that’s dancing.

Did I forget
to move on my own?
It’s been a while.

I’m just a filter now,
a filter of remembrance,
catching echoes
from a self I almost remember.