I’d like to climb
inside a mind
that doesn’t circle mine.

To feel the fears
of thoughts half-formed—
unwritten, undefined.

To dream a dream
I’ve never dreamed,
in shapes I can’t design.

If I could think
another’s thoughts,
and wear another’s skin—

then meet a gaze
and do it all
again, and then again—

Would I come home
to recognize
my own familiar tone?

Or would I find
there is no self,
just flesh around the bone?