I love the stranger who sits before me at the table in the cafe.
We sit so formally, our conversation polite, reserved, safe.
How odd that just a few (long) months ago without a second thought
I would have reached for his hand
Or brushed my leg against his
Beneath the table.
His face, once so familiar I can no longer read.
I barely know this stranger before me
And yet my feeling of love
Hangs heavy in the air between us.
Awkward and self-conscious
Not knowing what to do with itself.
I do not fear that this stranger will steal me away
But rather that I will know him less and less...
Until I cease to know him at all.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem