He doesn’t turn when I enter the
room, even though
I’m the only person there besides him. Both of us early, and trying to grasp the
things we do not understand. Simple
duality. We’ve never made
contact of any kind, despite
what we share.
I see him and know his thoughts; their
humour and
simple elegance. We have the same questions, yet ask nothing. We
smile at the same things,
laugh at the same things,
puzzle over the same things,
note the same things.
I can’t help but notice. He
floats in my
mind all day. I see the way he
adjusts his glasses. I see his
text book, opened in front of him, looking a thousand
years old, though it’s a
new edition. If only I could be that
book:
treasured,
poured over, taken to bed, the feel of my pages familiar, his
ink on my skin.
I dream of it.
I wonder what his name is.