After Reading a Young Poet

You’re writing what I could have written.
But it was another season.
Maybe my skill never had your shine,
maybe my hull was never mine.

When I read you,
I read myself.
Truths you tell, are the truths
I could never tell.

You caress syllables to complete
the emptiness of your experience.
I know your trick, I know your trade,
I know your sieve, I know your song.

Unwittingly, in poetic hues, you’ve condensed
the colorlessness of my canvas.
Should I embrace or exile you
from the kinship of my quirks?