first person

i am the first person, the one i wake up as, a bare bulb, a small reach of heat.

everything past my wrists is you, second person, second thought, the draft under a door i keep meaning to close.

and then the third: him, that distant hinge, the figure i keep catching myself catching sight of, as if i were studying you for how you study him, or studying him for how he mistakes you for me.