Hey stranger;

who are you?

Sorry; I know that’s terse.

But I ask on account 

we don’t actually converse.

I write and you read

or you don’t-

I don’t know,

doesn’t matter;

it’s fine, either way.

I don’t dare to presume,

couldn’t possibly claim understanding of you,

no invitation to observe

the workings lurking behind your optic nerve.

I bleed truth

and I’m drained, I’m afraid.

I could use a transfusion,

a change or a break 

from the one-sided bank that’s near dry to the dam.

I could do with some sort of malfunction-

a leak or a breakthrough to stave off 

the drought of the week coming on,

posing risk to depleted reserves,

some comment or tidbit to calm restless nerves.

Could you carry the conversation sometime? 

I’d take a word as consolation, if you’ve got one to spare.

Could you narrate your mind?

Wring the sponge in your skull dry from time to time?

I could soak up your words for a change.

Would that be so strange?

Would you say something new that’s never been said?

Seek answers never quite put to bed?

Could you translate your thoughts into words?

Or is that too absurd to even consider?

Would you grant admission to your mystery’s dissolving,

what remains- evolving

into someone I’d know in a room full of faces,

one I could look on and read past the mask.

It’s a lot to ask- I know,

of a stranger like you,

So I guess I’ll just write

And you are welcome to read, if you like,

with no pressure to share,

while I remain unaware

and you remain ever a stranger.