You can’t see the way the sunlight
Casts shadows across the page
As my hand draws the lines
To make these sentences.
But that doesn’t make it any less real.
You can’t hear the way the song
Plays over the coffee shop
Speakers, hardly recognized by
Fellow patrons over concentrated
Furrowed brows and steaming milk.
But that doesn’t make me avoid feeling it.
You can’t smell the mix of
Espresso and the cologne of
The man sitting across from me and
Be taken back to that day in March
Playing in my mind so vividly.
But that doesn’t make me crazy.
I couldn’t ask you to even try
To begin understanding the slightest
Bit of what makes me who I am.
Yet here I am.
Living anyway.