after awhile, the most intriguing strangers become a sort of fiction.
you begin to see them in diptychs;
the contours and lines of their pasts and futures
sewn together by the missing jigsaw puzzle pieces
currently hidden under your quilted couch in your living room,
by the negatives from the pentax disposable cameras you developed all too long ago
and filtering through alternating eye contact and brainstormed, ad-libbed dialogue
(a game of chess)
and their second-hand gazes.
(they’re only second-hand, because they’re all too familiar)
we’re always chasing and holding onto lost memories,
reminders and discarded post-it notes of all that we once knew
or the answers we’ve never known.
(they’re still pending)
we all suffer from amesia,
(don’t worry, it’s only temporary)
until we get struck by lightning
and our sight becomes cloudless.
we’re always trying to find our way home.
(checkmate)
