Today, I wrote a letter to a stranger.
I do not know if he exists or not, but what is that to me?
His name I plucked from the air above my head,
His address I dug from the ground beneath my feet.
This I did, without batting an eyelid.
Without losing breath.
Without thinking twice.
Without looking back.
As if it were there, already, in my blood.
What did I write? What could I write?
How does one address a stranger?
With disarming honesty, an invitation to confide?
Or a lengthy, partly polite, partly awkward introduction?
I hope he cares not for convention.
I’m sure he does not.
I began with shaking fingers and a font so embarrassingly weak
“I’m not, I’m not, I’m not-,”
“I am not in love.”
Oh yes, that was it, and it I paused to consider.
The road was easy, from there on.
I once again picked up that burning thread
Of brutal honesty, and went on,
Floating, flying, dancing, drowning, in that endless dream.
A strange music rose around me, accompanied by dust
Atoms, stray sunlight, flowers borne by the wind,
Smoke rising in the distance-
They seemed to chant: “Not, not, not,”
“Not in love.”
It must have been hours later, pages later
Or maybe just a minute had passed-
When I sealed the envelope and set it free.
I could have stayed back, and followed its tracks.
But I headed the other way.
Without batting an eyelid, without losing breath
Without thinking twice, without looking back.
My heart felt lighter, my mind, empty
And the music went on, all the way home
Overshadowing all clarity
The chant now a faint echo-