Stories Of "I" That Divide

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I have a name, a voice, a thread,
A tale that spins inside my head.
It makes me “me,” from start to end,
A fragile truth I must defend.

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If my own story went away, 
And "I" saw naught another day, 
My living body would be worse, 
A zombie under some strange curse.

My cat has shape, it leaps and lies,
But lacks the self behind our eyes.
It doesn’t ask the who or why,
Or fear the day its self might die.

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The line between your soul and mine,
How can the difference be defined?
Our stories claim that we are two—
That we are different, me and you.

I like to think I chose each plot,
But even then, I might have not.
The tale I claim as mine alone,
Was planted deep, not self-made grown.

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And yet, when gazing into you,
I feel a being deep and true.
The only line that keeps us two,
Your soul in you, not in my shoes.

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 The stories whispered to our minds,
Are all that make them yours and mine.
Our selves we carry, page by page,
Through love and loss, through youth and age.