You are her whom I loved. You are her, the very same. Yet you are nothing like her. You are nothing like her.
I have walked through your mind with you, walked while you led. Walked through your garden of memories.
You are not her.
I have seen you in the morning and the evening and the morning, your body silhouetted against the sun, dress: blowing clouds caught up against your cliffs; dress: a spider's gauze blown around you by the gods in their modesty.
You are stormy.
I have touched you in the evening and the morning and in the evening -- As the tears cried from your eyes; as your eyes cried red with anger.
You are full of pain; you are full of joy. You are full of passion -- you are full of life.
You are not her. And you are her.
Because of what you do to me.