I did not write this

It was her.
Dark hair, fair skin.
A free hand and a black pen.

She thinks like me.
A mind like the sky.
Layers and layers of sunshine, rain and clouds.

She has a heart like mine.
With the colours of the rainbow.
Framed in gold.

Her soul resembles mine.
It sings.
Not too soft, never loud, and never for anyone but herself.

Perhaps if I tap her on the shoulder.
Maybe then, she will step back into my being.