Sometimes
the line between
where you begin
and I end
blurs like
a sweet valentine-
we bleed into one another
like spilled honey-
bound together
in an affectionate nectar
that defies separation.
Yet,
sometimes-
the line between
where you begin
and I end-
clashes like
oil and vinegar.
I am you.
I can't speak.
I can't breathe.
I wear your shoes.
I clip my wings.
I mold into your side
and am smothered
by the darkness.
I am you.
I am you.
I am you.
