If You Knew Me

The Stranger

In his office at the end of the hall,
where the door is closed and the room is dark and dissonant, my stranger creates his masterpiece.
I pause outside the door,
watching the light from the computer screen dance across his face, strong in concentration, washing harsh white light over his soft smile.
As the silence crescendos, I imagine I hear the meter of the mouse clicking,
the cadence of the keyboard keys pattering, the rooted rhythm of his breathing.
He leans back with a deep sigh,
running his hands through his curly brown hair, and rests. I watch him gaze out the window,
where his eyes meet mellow sunlight filtering through.
I remember the many interludes we had, the laughter that filled the office
when the door was open
and the room was full of light and harmony.
Friends laugh together--
­­we always sang the same notes­­ and share endless jokes and giggles, although he always beat me to it.
I remember leaning against the doorway,
while he spun around in his office chair,
as we talked about everything and nothing at all.
I remember the sudden cacophony in our relationship,
how we didn't talk for 6 months,
how I avoided his eyes and his melodious laugh and smile, how I knew what was wrong, and he didn't­­-- doesn't.
Now, as I look through the door
and over his shoulder at the unfinished masterpiece,
I wonder what really put a damper on our relationship, and I hope he finds a friend
who can love him like I did.
Someone who makes him laugh
and his green eyes sparkle.
As he turns toward the door, maybe feeling my presence,
I am already gone­­
soft as a shadow on piano keys.
I leave my music with him,
hoping someday he'll find it again ­­his harmony­­
and remember how we used to sing.