When my words are not your words,
when my keys are in my box
and your grass grows in someone else's lawn,
when my exhale is not your inhale,
my dreams are not your blueprint,
my banner is not your cause,
will you still dance for me?
Even when I have my guide
and you have your maps,
and I have my pen
and you have your muse,
and I have my song and my lips
and my fragments and pieces
and glasses and shards and my lines,
and you have you,
will you grow for me?
And when all my straw has
blown away
and your sticks have all
burned down,
can we return to our bricks
and, somehow, rebuild what was
once ours?