With book and coffee, he looks
Deep; with cake and soft drink,
I look lonely, passing the time
By writing about strangers.

Perhaps he is where I was
All those years ago. I still
Remember how I thought,
How I felt, how I would have
Seen the woman behind the bar.

Has he learned to see beyond
A pinafore dress and practical hair,
Or does he still struggle to tell
Reality from fantasy, to remember
That what his imagination creates
Is not what is there before him?

Maybe he is oblivious in a way
I never could be: blocking out
The noise of other humans that
Always smothered the words I read.

Back then, I always thought
I wanted to be ignored, to be
Anonymous, when I actually
Longed to be noticed. I wanted
To share my words with somebody,
But merely wrote them to myself.

The semi darkness barely illuminates
The words he reads and those
That I write. Perhaps it is
A hunger for more than words that
Brought us both here.

If he came here to be noticed,
He has succeeded; but maybe
Mine are not the eyes he wished
To see him. My mission is
Different now: the only person I want
To see me is myself.

11/23/2018

Posted on 12/16/2018
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