Dear stranger,
others might call me hung up on you,
they might call me the lover of an echo,
perhaps even a mystified relic,
hanging on to the thread that may still
connect us.
Dear stranger,
others must be unnerved by my relentless
and firm devotion to you, not knowing
I'm not misty-eyed over you— only the idea of you.
Dear stranger,
others surely would assume that you're a part
of a love story that has long come to an end,
but little do they know,
that it never even started.
Dear stranger,
others would suspect me of being a romantic,
hopelessly so, whenever they see me pass a couple,
or even the flower shop, not knowing that it was you
who made the garden of my soul bloom, years ago.
Dear stranger,
others think I have a bit of a crush; whenever I walk past you,
when you do your job of not even glancing my way, the way
you've been for quite some time, not knowing how your eyes
would light up the second they found me in a crowd.
Dear stranger,
others like to think they have me and you figured out, but
they have no idea that what we had was a whimsical fairy tale
ripped out of a book, everything included—except the ending.
Dear stranger,
others must gossip about the way I look at you from afar,
like the moon does at the sun when it's morning,
like the glimmering waves do at the stars when it's night.
Dear stranger,
others might think I'm in love with you, but I was in love with
the way you gazed fondly at me, the way you made me feel,
the butterflies in my stomach when I made you laugh,
with the person you were when you were once with me,
but now you're my favourite almost.
Dear stranger,
others assume you don't even know me, judging by the way
your eyes don't reflect recognition of me,
and I guess mine don't either,
because that's what you are now— a complete,
dear stranger.