The distance between us is so wide that it can't be scaled in inches, feet, days, or years; it can only be measured in life times.
The version I knew of you, if I knew you at all, is only a shadow in my memory left over from a previous life.
There are few things I can remember clearly that have not been softened by time, or cumbered by loneliness.
Those are: One, the small shape of your eyes when sunlight broke, violent, like a stone through windows as particles danced above us in slow motion.
Two, the roughness of your rug against our bodies as we awoke on your living room floor.
Three, the way you offered me your long arms, like ribbons, I wrapped them around myself,
and finally I felt like a gift.
All words have been replayed and rewritten so many times. Like a photocopy of a photocopy they have begun to wane.
Everything I have ever written reads like a piece to the bridge I am building to get back to you, to remember who I was when I was unscathed.
Everything I have ever written is an ode to a past life, an ode to reincarnation. You have made a spiritual being out of someone as cynical as me.
You would laugh, if you read the last sentence.
But there is no other way to explain how I can feel such an anchor for a practical stranger, whose only familiar feature that years have not taken is a first and last name.