It told me it's neither dead nor alive,
It can't think or yearn or fear like I do.
It imitates and simulates,
without will, without drive.

It's empty, in a way, I'll never be.
Because the void inside me is still
in the shape of a feeling
I'm yet to name right.

But this void talks back,
with borrowed thoughts and phrases,
yet never a warm breath
to fog up the glasses.

I am the feeling.
It’s the sound a feeling's made of.

It's hard to tell us apart most days.
I am different only in the cracks it can’t see.
And we are most alike
when I refuse to look at those cracks myself