You looked at me like an imposer on your norm. As if I were a dreaded interaction with a distant Aunt. “You’ve grown so much” , as you look back glassy eyed, wondering how you can take up such space in a strangers memory without consent. You kiss her on the cheek and let your words skim the surface of daily nothings, to appease the peace.

You once looked at me like an unexpected find. As if you walked into a book store with side-eyed intentions, even still, encountering a book with enticing decor. You decide to crack it open, intrigue urging you to check if it’s worth it’s embellished coat. You make the gamble, buy the book, read a line and sink, you’re hooked.

Until it gets shelved among it’s fellow bound narratives, to hopefully one day be leafed through, touched by uncommitted fingers on a day with extra time. You read through a few pages that once gripped your soul but now simply invite an additional intake of breath, only to give credit that it once meant more. You close the story and put us back in it’s rightful place.

You’ll reopen it again.
You’ll draw more breaths.
You’ll make nice with a distant aunt.
And you’ll keep giving books a chance.
And you will forever look at me with foreign eyes.