Guilty as Accused

Unreal voice from my past, who are you?
I suspect I know you. I suspect I do not.
I ask again, who speaks?
It's me.
'Me' who?
Guess!

Ah yes, so it's you,
my elder near-twin:
same home, same school, same grandmother,
same uncles, same aunts minus one
and different mothers.

Sixteen years, no twenty have passed,
since we last met or talked.
You remember our cousin's wedding,
way back in the previous millennium:
really, in the previous millennium.
Millennia change in a moment, not pass, you see.

You sound strange, unknown, and then confident.
I sound hesitant, tentative, and then confident.
We are both professionals with over twenty years
over our first twenty and two more.
We are good at sounding confident
even when we aren't, at least I am.

Twenty years is a lifetime.
Many were born, many died in that span.
Generations passed, if not ages and now,
you speak of my next;
I keep silent about your previous,
and mine.

Guilty un-accused.

I don't have anything else to speak
It should end now, the call.
We know, I know, you know
that this visit may be your last.
You know, I know that you know,
but hope I am wrong,
this call is the last.