People always ask me to whom I write all of my poems and all I could answer is “no one” for I have yet to meet you, stranger.
I haven’t yet met someone who’ll teach me everything about the literary present and tell me that Mr. Darcy meets Elizabeth at a party not met at a party or that Lady Macbeth dies not died – because everything that has happened in the past is still, will be, and is always happening. Like how Romeo and Juliet is constantly falling in love.
No stranger had stood beside me on an art museum and taught me everything he knows about art. How I get curious about mosaics and you, stranger, tell me it’s pieces of paper patched together and how it’s no different from people.
I have yet to meet someone on the bus listening to the Beatles and i’ll pretend i’m not overjoyed with the fact that you, my stranger, is not playing songs from the album A Hard Day’s Night; Yet you notice and I ask you what’s your favorite song – You tell me its “If I Fell” and I tell you how love is more than just holding hands.
I still haven’t met you, my dear stranger, though I am not surprised for maybe I don’t actually need to. For I have already taught myself all of these things and I have been brought up with so much self-love to not crave love from anyone else. Maybe I have loved Little Red Riding Hood so much when I was a kid that i’ve been constantly living by her words – never talk with strangers