no title 10.16

No two souls are ever born alike,

and no two, breathing, ever grow the same.

So long as we draw a different air,

so long as we keep a different pace,

so long as we turn our gaze to a different angle,

even a single glance of idle, at a different corner,

its scars upon the heart, each carved by a different stranger.

And so no two souls hold the selfsame thought.

No two souls are heir to the selfsame pain.

Yet still we are born aching for the other half of us,

though we are never granted sight beyond the halo of another’s mind.

Still we yearn, and we long, and we grieve for it,

grasping after the one bright instant the thread between us shows itself,

to hold, and to be hold, by a soul not our own,

and cross the only bridge there is,

laid brick by brick of language and word,

to learn,

to love.