Who are you?

"Who are you?"
Voices called out from the unseen,
Cold and distant, yet striking deep,
As if they knew the answer already,

"I am I," the reply came,
Whispered, resolute—yet uncertain,
As though the words were borrowed,
A truth claimed but barely trusted.

Who are you, now that we are you?
The air grew heavy, voices merging,
Twisting into one
In the quiet exchange, something shifted...
Something nameless took shape.

The "I" was gone, unmade in silence,
And the question lingered, hanging—
Not for an answer,
But for the one who would dare ask again.

Who are you?
Asked again, softly,
But in the silence that followed,
There was no need for answers,
Simply a quiet understanding
That had always been there.