Beyond Ourselves

from 10.13.18

The pale, marble buildings wear the dying light like borrowed pearls. The upper windows of the city blush at the flirtatious contortions of the sun-setting sky. An angel dances in a fountain. The air is cool, but the warmth of passing strangers is enough.

I recognize faces in the crowd—faces that exist on the furthest periphery of remembrance. It is nice to see them and to recall how I know them but feel no obligation to say hello. To feel there are people who might allow me to live even on the edges of their consciousness in some neurological hamlet with all the other people and feelings they haven’t quite let go.

I share a drink with friends. Friends in whose minds I might presume to have a castle. Or perhaps even a coveted acre in the crescent of their hearts. It may be proud to consider the space I occupy in the lives around me, but it is simply nice to know that I exist beyond myself. That this fragile, imperfect person is not all there is.

And you, dear soul, know that you live in many worlds, and that in mine, I have memorized the path to your door.