How can it be that your words describe what I have seen?
How can the words you write describe the path I have trodden?
Bumps and hills, hurdles, smiles... how do you know them?
Are my thoughts, experiences all so openly seen that you have access?
Were you following, reading minds, perhaps spying or stalking?
Even my thoughts and emotions in precise framing in your words.
Are you me in some other form I have until now never seen?
How can you understand me and know me when we have never met?
You were not there when I lived these things. How can you know them?
Our pathways in different lands, at different times and yet you write me.
How can we share these footprints and yet never meet?

the forest smell
is not
for clarity and focus
but dear to
you
and me (not many yet
the two
who count)

shared thoughts however murky
remain
when leaves have gone

Something’s missing…
Well, we’ve said it all
The goodbyes,
The goodnights,
And even the shy Imissyous,
But
there
is
still
a telephone

g               a             p

at the other
end

A silent expectation
A pause.