We talk to each other like strangers, in carefully scripted architecture, allegedly, to keep from hurting, others or ourselves. Breaking off little pieces of conversation to shove around and share and salivate over like delicate, intricate morsels of emotion, so much more valuable than common flesh in today’s market. Real human feelings, “real” being the rarest commodity known to man, and woman. We talk to each other like strangers. What then that we were not and could touch one another, without the glass between us, and still care, with numb fingers and fumbling hands, so long for the want of it? What then if we could be made complete with one another? Is this, in some way, is it more intimate? To only imagine the pleasure or pain we inflict, removed from the physical presence of it? Is it more intimate, to feel as though it were a secret? A secret that we try to keep from ourselves? What if we were not this and said~ It is so very real. An adventure story? What if we said this is the life and were present in it, together? What if I had not so clearly heard you say, that the words were all you were wanting? What if I had listened?

Would we be more than the most intimate of strangers? We talk to each other like strangers, because maybe, we are.

Write. Re- write it. Keep re-writing it.

Categories: Poetry, prose

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