These are and are not my hands

they undoubtedly are
because they are attached to my
arms and they also respond when I call them.

But
how can I explain it, they are not the same
hands that I remember.

As if my skeleton had been stolen, because
it is and is not my blood that runs sweetly
in the filaments.

I am not afraid
of old age, no way, I am not afraid of it.

But I am afraid to think
that if mom comes back
and finds me sleeping
she will think that I am not me
that she made a mistake in the dream.