I don’t know you— perhaps we have only crossed paths once. But I feel like I have known you for aeons. For centuries. Could you be the girl painting the Aurora Borealis in the ward? Or the girl who had scars snaking down her porcelain arms? Maybe you were the man who lent me an umbrella when I was caught in the rain. Perhaps, your beautiful stanzas, your poems blew me away, captivated me, but you left, and I didn’t have a chance to say goodbye. It’s strange and ironic, since I haven’t really met you yet— but I miss you already.
Another random stranger