Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Not We, But Me

Not We, But Me

We are not one, but two.
Two passages created unequally.
The same word, the same look,
But defined differently.
Two words with two meanings.

She is a passage,
A passage from a tome,
Pristine form
Scrawled on the page.
Neatly aligned.
She is a passage
In a story,
But only that,
A small segment.
A passage of what is,
Of what was.
The rest?
Another passage
Never to be found,
Not even by me,
Her opposite.

I am a passage to someplace else,
A place that is yet to be revealed.
The peeled walls and plastic flowers of my passage,
Pass by others, but rarely intersect with them,
Leaving a few scattered doors that vary in form.
They connect to my passage, locking two together.
But my world is my own.
And though it is not hidden, my passage is for only me.
There is no one else who treads through it.

To say we are the same
Is an illusion.
It is not reality.
If I were a passage in a book
My words would differ.
If she were a passageway,
With more doors she’d be connected.

There have been moments,
Brief periods,
When we were considered
Not just the same in person
But in identity.
When only one was allowed,
We were counted as one
Although we are not.
Others aren’t considered one
So why are we?

We may be we,
But I am still me
And she is still she.

We are not one, but two.

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