Two

I can not tell if I want to know you

Or if it is I that wants to be known.

​

You hide yourself,

I would open my ribcage.

​

It's sad that I know this an illusion.

The intensity of my feeling is not a testamant of love

as much as it is the anxiety of my own, seperate, aloneness.

​

I am perpetually weak,

no solid ground on which to stand, except in elusive moments

Never grasped on to.

​

An empty vessel for the emotions of others,

I feel too much.

Unable to tell where I end and they begin,

I can't tell you for certain if I even exist.

​

Maybe the one who hides is me.

When you open your ribcage

I thought it was just silence,

But I'm beginning to hear:

a simple uncomplicated rythym.

The first sound we come to know and feel safe by.

It's been so long since I've heard my own.

​

I want to know you, equally so, I want to know myself through you.

Have those always been the same?