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I see you.  Slowly emerging from my body.  Who are you?  You have my eyes, but the rest is unfamiliar.  I do not understand how you move; you are becoming lanky.  I interlock your arms or bend your legs in funny directions just to see if I can.  I have never moved like this before.  Your fingers can touch the small parts of my back.  Your shoulders have become muscle and bone.  What have you done to my shoulders?  You are a strange man in the mirror as I leave the shower.  I am less startled if I fixate on your eyes.  You have my eyes.  But curiosity gets the better of me.  I follow beads of water as they drip from my hair and slip down the sharp angles of your face.  They glide down your neck and pool on your clavicles which peak beneath my flesh.  I have never had clavicles like yours.  They are foreign to my touch and odd to my sight.  You fit clothes that are too small for me to wear.  You exercise, and enjoy it.  I have no idea who you are and yet you are what I've become.

We have to stop meeting like this.