I'm writing this because I have to, James.
It's not you it's me, it's not me it's you.
Or something like that.
We shared a conversation, a few words
Traded back and forth through the air.
Didn't mean anything.
Didn't have to.
We're not friends, we're strangers, James,
Something which I don't think we'll ever fix, or resolve, or whatever.
Point is we're not even going to try.
Point is we don't have to.
But it didn't have to be like this, James.
It could have been so much less.
There could have been no spark in your eyes.
There didn't have to.
I'm writing this because I have to, James.
Because it's not either of our faults, the apathy we share
Is just human nature. When you see someone who isn't
Really suffering, you don't stop to care.
Someone asked me who James is. He's just someone I talked to once, then never saw again. I decided to call this poem James after him because it sounds better than the original title, Letter to the Strangers.