Surely there aren’t two of me— 
one living the life I refused—or did I
kill her, nearly 40 years ago?—the other
(that’s me) keeping record of the dreams
she’s interrupted, the times her laugh
has my traded lips with my own, and
the words—how many turgid thoughts?
—that must be leaking from her head
into mine. Truly she isn’t
turning off the light and, lying still,
pretending no one’s there to hear her
whispers to herself—which one?—
to read the blood smeared behind her face
in confession.