A Conversation with Myself:

The girl with the small notebook
asks, “Will anyone hear me?”

The woman with the candle replies,
“They already do.”

The elder with the lantern smiles,
“And there is still more to come.”

Three selves at one table,
three books side by side —
fragile, steady, glowing.

Above us, poems form constellations.
Below us, the cat purrs in the quiet.

And I know at last:
I am one long poem,
still being written.