“I am, I am, I am” , wrote Sylvia.
“I”, fluid de-oxygenated blood in my veins,
when I turn my ears to your song.
Am I my hands, that trace the sequence
Up and down, down, down, up,
As they strum through your hair?
Or am I the warmth in the pit of my soul,
when I don’t have to speak the words
for you to hear them glow in the dark?
Am I the contours of my mind as they morph,
Shrinking and growing with your questions
and my quest for answers that match yours?
I am, yes. But who?