Identity.

Don't you think I know
you for my same flesh and bone?
A "me" which is not me.

Tears
are the only real equality
afforded us,
is fact.

My hand keeps reaching out,
and only finds the mist,
the suspended moisture
of a billion combined sufferers
of terminal melancholy.

Aching, burning
to find
the glorious concretion
of your hand (yes, yours).