Do You Ever Think Of Me?

“Do you ever think of me?” you ask with those eyes that pierce like fire.

We have conversations which dwell on the unresolved of our memories.

I remember walking in town and seeing a girl with a cigarette and a hoodie.  Her hair was let down and twirled in the wind.

For a moment I saw your face in hers. For a moment I saw your fingers hold the cigarette she was holding.

The moment was gone.

“Do you ever think of me?” you write on a piece of paper and hand it to me.

I remember handwriting and folded pieces of paper. Many folded pieces of paper.

I came to this country with pieces of paper. Literature, poetry, mentalities, letters – those were what were nurturing my spiritual growth.

 “Do you ever think of me?” you ask with that voice which is selective of sincerity.

I often look into the mirror and focus on my eyes until I reach that moment where each human feels that it is not himself or herself looking back, but a stranger.

I then softly trace the skin on my palm and try to think of how reliable my senses are – what if there’s a miniscule part that my senses cannot trace?

At that moment I think of you.

 “I do” I reply and without thinking, I smile.

What if there’s more?

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