“Every reader, as he reads, is actually the reader of himself. The writer's work is only a kind of optical instrument he provides the reader so he can discern what he might never have seen in himself without this book. The reader's recognition in himself of what the book says is the proof of the book's truth.” – Marcel Proust

If the sheaf of moments spent In your company can be thought Of as a book that you where writing On the slate of cold air, by uttering Words through your speech,

And the mostly silent me, as the reader, Read-listening to your appearing and Disappearing sentences, what new truths About myself did I then discern in those Lines, apart from the one I already knew

On how this dislocated self and that of The other’s will never be truly reconciled Into the earnestly wished for double helix?