If your words are painted across my heart, 
if your face is drawn along every wall
I'll go on to build around myself, 
then I could still hold on to 
some semblance of you.

Some parallel echo I may be able to record and mimic, 
create from scratch again and build any way I want, 
but each one of those possible timelines 
would always carry a flaw sewn in somewhere.

The color of your eyes may be a shade off, 
bedroom light revealing the wrong location 
of the tiny scar you got as a child, 
your hand could hold mine but the moment 
you squeeze, it will be the affection of a stranger.

A heart always alien to my own.

If the scent of your body clings to my sheets and clothes, 
if the love we made is stored within 
every muscle and delicate synapse, 
I'll go on to wrap those once tangible 
flashes of raw need around myself, 
I would have at least some version of you.

Some embodiment I may be able to catch and amplify, 
filter through me from scratch and sculpt any way I wish, 
but each doppelganger would be marked 
somewhere in such desperate architecture.

The melody of your voice would hit a wrong note, 
your smile would always carry a secret I'll never unearth, 
your lips would cover mine but the moment we're one, 
I will be entangled with a stranger.

A being always alien to my own.