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That’s what you are,
the kind of
perfect stranger
I’d cross paths with
on a downtown-bound
subway ride
on a random day
when there was
a little sun
and a little drizzle,
a little chaos
and a little peace,
with enough elbow room for
qualified curiosity
inconsequential conversation
without giving away
any real information
at first,
no real identity,
only inanities
that would later matter,
and a name I’d just
as soon forget
as remember,
that kind of thing,

my soul was looking
for exactly that.

Maybe my feet
were carrying me
somewhere unknown,
where I could be
equally unknown.
Maybe I was
under the illusion
it would cure me
of my lust for
indulging in sympathy.
Maybe my spirit
needed rest
from caring too much
through knowing too much.
Maybe you were
the required therapy,
the salve for the
swollen shoulders
of my tired expectations
after a long day of
working like a dog.

Either way I did
open myself to you
and beauty entered,
and inspiration,
and love,
and by the end of the line
my mind became
the Grand Central Station
to a host of emotions.

Pandora asked
if I had any regrets.
I told her no.