I met my stranger.
We grazed hands, locked eyes, traded hugs.
I walked into their house and abandoned my own.
Introduced myself as an idea
held long distance in my arms.
Chest to chest.
And spoke on their land
in my native tongue
from worlds away.
I welcomed them to all my least favorite parts.
Let them in through the basement and dimmed the lights.
I wondered about their skin, but never about the light they lived in.
Succumbed them to makeshift fantasies.
Finish lines. Fishing hooks.
I met my stranger
as a mirror.
Forced projection, false protection.
Spoke about saying nothing at all.
And reintroduced myself until I wasn’t there.
We kept in touch in several letters.
An alphabet that could never love itself into a word.
Or into a thought that was true.
Letters that floated in all the space around us.
And whenever bound, floated out to sea.
And met again in every passing by.
When forward turned —
Ideas into knowing.
Planted seeds into growing.
Birthday wishes after blowing.
Friend or foe,
our close felt so closed.
By how I’d touched but never felt them.
I saw their lips moving but never listened.
And as long as I’d drunk them in, I’d drain them.
It could never be nice to meet them because we didn’t.
And that makes it all the more stranger.
