There is a space between my fingers.
It is not large,
Nor is it small.
Not small because it is empty.
Not large because it's never been full.
The emptiness rarely looks the same.
Sometimes it looks lonely,
And others simply alone.

Sometimes my fingers forget
That just because they are empty
Doesn't mean
My Heart is.

I read somewhere,
Once,
That there are seven people who look remarkably
Like you
On the earth.

I also read somewhere,
Or maybe I just thought it or felt it or dreamed it,
That there is no one in the
Universe
That hears the way you hear,
That feels the way you feel,
That thinks the way you think,
That smells or breathes or dreams the way you do.

Society tends to reject the words
Unique,
Weird,
Funny,
Odd,
When in reality
There is no one else
Like you.

We are living projections of
Unique.

And yet each day,
Each minute,
Each second
We search for Normal.

Something that has been proven,
At least in my mind,
To not exist,
And to never have existed.

I hope that at least I
And you
Can grow to understand that the
Different, the
Inconsistent, the
Strange,
Are, in fact,

The normal.