I know you.
Not like the back of my hand, more like the front.
The part exposed to the world that can still tell tales and lies if you question it.
Like the souls in my feet, the ones that whisper no matter how much you want to you can't float away.
Like the smile on my face, usually authentic but sometimes plastered there and left up to interpretation because image is everything right?
I have no idea who you are.
You're summers of joy and leaps of faith and persistence, you're heartbreak and "darling I love you,"
But you're a stranger, another shadow in the dark unaccounted for and vaguely real.
You're great risk, great reward in a frigid wind tunnel whose gaze may already be cast in some other direction.
But I would like to get to know you.
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