When I’m with you
I feel like flour on a baker’s apron,
spared from the kitchen oven.
I’m not you. You’re not me. But we’re each other.
Sometimes you’re an empty chair tired of sitting still,
and I’m a dark storefront window
waiting for my face to pass by.
Even when we’re not ourselves we’re still each other.
In the evening
our shadows inflate like the lifeboats
of sinking vessels.
Listen, whoever you are, admit it: we’re each other.