I’m in love with people I’ve never met
whose stories I long to hear,
whose voices I yearn to listen to,
their laughter I want to share,
their pain I want to sit with.
The world feels too small
for me to live without them,
their paths could surely cross mine;
we could stop and
breathe the same air,
smirk at the same exchange,
warm under the same sun.
Our worlds may never coincide
unless we venture far
unless we are willing to traverse
our own unknown.
Only then can we wade through the same atoms,
our brains interpreting the same refractions
a naive hope
that we could hear the same words
a language apart.
The brevity of the encounter matters little,
our lives forever intertwined
through the bondage of memory,
the warmth of recollection
or that which we hold on to.
Our exchange will be recalled
at my every dinner party;
each friend, each relative,
hell, even a cashier will hear
“when I was abroad”;
our interaction exploited
for my own indulgence
in attention and praise.
Is it exploitation?
Or is it beauty,
the currency of our humanity,
the stories which enthrall us?
Maybe we are meant to share,
to use our experiences
as ways to connect us.
Or are our tales of the exotic abroad
just that:
exploitation of the other?
Or could out interactions
with souls across the world
be a testimony to our connectedness,
the ties of our humanity?
[This lens beckons an uncomfortable nuancy I feel unwilling to accept]
But as I see faces
of people I’ve never met
and hear voices unfamiliar
I cannot help but let my lips draw back.
I’m in love with people I’ve never met
whose stories I long to hear
and while I may never know
their rhythms or rhymes,
the small snippets I see
as I traverse their homes
will sit with me
grow me
and forever be a part of me.
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