Sometimes, one

Sometimes, you said, I don't know 
Where I end and where you begin...

So you feel that too, I thought, 
But gut-wrenchingly
Scared to admit, 
acknowledge,
Give in.
For I have been a runner all my life
And to admit it would mean
No more running...

Then you woke me up in the wee hours 
to prove how your longing would bring you back 
From the dead... for me...
For you turned into a poet
And I the curious journalist
When you wrote your poetry on my skin
And I investigated you thoroughly!

So we lit a fire that spun in
a whirlwind
and I gave to you and took you
Till there was nothing left of me
And there was nothing left of you
Except one conflagration and 
an all-consuming flame
That blanketed us
Just before we were reborn.

Sometimes, I said, I don't know where
I end
And where you begin.