she’s in my house again,

reading my books,

drinking my tea,

feeding my cat,

speaking like me.

i don’t invite her in.

not consciously.

she is not me.

i’m over there—

in the same chair—

that she is.

this is what puzzles

and quizzes me…

where does she start

and i begin?

how do her bones

fit into my skin?

my dark and baleful twin is awake

when she sleeps

but is still not enlightened.

hush now, you napping storm,

this is the fulcrum.

it’s my turn to convey

my respects to Life…

i’ll enjoy the sun,

divesting your pesky shade

and eclipsing strife. 

i choose beauty,

not spite.

i softly tip-toe across the floor,

sneaking past her sleeping form.

i step into the day,

accepting my next role

in this perpetually pivotal play.

and when i complete my turn,

when there’s nothing more to learn,

she takes over,

spinning the wheel once more.

restoring all balance,

we even the score.