° a n d w h e n w e l e f t w e w e r e s t i l l s t r a n g e r s °

There was this cafe by the street,
Next to the graveyard,
Where he first saw me.

A mystery he was,
Dark hair, brown eyes.
A crooked smile that hid,
A thousand lies.

I was at once intrigued,
By the secrets he held.
What darkness lurked beneath ,
His bottomless irises.

A paper, a pen on the Oakwood table,
His soul as bland as an autumn leaf.
Though what his face failed to say,
I saw in his eyes.

Little did I know ,
That was the beginning of my demise.

I passed by, everyday,
Same time, same place.
And walked to the cafe,
All for a man who was but a stranger.

Days turned to weeks,
Weeks bled to months.
I tried to build up courage,
To unravel the mystery that was he.

But each time his gaze met mine,
I could but look away.
One day, intentions straight,
I made a point to not walk away.

Strolling over to the same place,
I rehearsed in my mind what to say.
My little reverie cut short,
By a procession of mourners in black.
A body they carried, a silent din.
As a man rested,
In the Oakwood coffin.

I still pass by,
That quaint little place.
In the hope of glimpsing
That familiar face.

But little did I know
That I was searching in the wrong space.
When all the while,
He was right next to the cafe.

And so strangers we were
Strangers we stay.