She reads a lot.
In buses and in trains,
in bed and on the couch,
while eating and even walking,
at all the times of day and night.

Another – writes, restlessly,
especially at night.
Both prose and poetry, in all their forms.
Prefers the pen, but clicks away
on keyboard, if scribbled notes before.

She cooks.
With pleasure and with skill,
precision and experimentation,
forever looking to improve
on taste and visual perception.

Another – eats,
enjoying every bite,
yet rating it. Expecting nothing
less than perfect of the chef.

She cries,
though not at happy endings,
but at uncertainties, injustices,
at loss of beauty
in the world.

Another – laughs,
at silly little things,
at great achievements
(no, no, out of pleasure!
out of shared happiness)
and at herself.

They’re different,
and there’s so many more
that I dare not all list at once.
Make no mistake,
I know them all,
too well, yet none at all.

They’re all together,
not alone,
within myself,
for they’re all me.