Who am I? I stare inside the eyes that stare back into my eyes and look for something there to claim, at which to point--ah ha, surprise! But what are mirrors? Just a lie, showing you a copy of your eyes, empty pools, no one home, when you knock, no one says hi, when you reach out, they wave goodbye. These are my eyes, for they are blue, they look at me, and I at you, and they are asking without speaking, Who am I, and who are we? And who are you, if you're not me? And I, without temptation to pretend, put down the mirror, bring to an end the lie. And the eyes that were my eyes die. I could bring them back to life but they would tell me nothing new, I could offer up a sacrifice, but they could still never be me, nor I be you. It's like living without a skin, or waking naked in a crowd, like missing the last flight to God or screaming silently out loud. I stand in front of every night and think. will no one ever cry for me, will no one ever dance? I cup my arms around the ghost of my twin of circumstance and, arm in arm, we slowly sink, she dead and I with one less chance. Will no one ever fly for me? The night is sucked of life, as peaceful as a glassy pond, resting unperturbed in ignorance, and I stare into it and panic silently at the darkness without end that I cannot pretend is light, and so, throughout the night, I fight and do not understand how it can hurt so much. I talk to God and He is stone, so alive but so alone, and when I cry His name, my lips freeze as the moon in an eclipse, and I think of Him, but He's not home. My heart has stopped and deep inside the seed of man is cold and dried. Wash over me, ravish me, cling to me and cherish me, breathe my breath and give me life, for I am but Pinocchio, pretending to be real, and you are but a fantasy, my face inside a mirrored glass, you are but the other half of me, the fairy and the prince, you are but an endless ocean waiting to prove you can't be measured or contained, can't be counted or restrained, can't be stolen or sent back, to prove that you will fly for me, will cry for me, for me, the fullness that you lack. And if you never come, if the night is always still and God is never home, then death will find me standing here, my heart wide open, looted and left, virgin, bereft, and still alone. But if, without you, I must die, I will never know if I am you. Who am I?