Chasing Strangers

This is what comes of it all. There are traces of it all around us. We see echoes of ourselves in every street we walk down, we hear voices calling out our names, but when we turn there is no-one there. We have looked for each other in all these crowds and down these lonely, empty, streets. We have stared across these people-filled rooms, each searching for that one glance back that is a sign someone else knows that we each exist and, with time, may come to care about that.

We have chased strangers across these tangled sheets of frantic nights, looking for a look that will recognise us as they look back into our eyes. We have woken up on those following mornings wondering what happened and how did we get here, next to someone whose name is less than a memory.

We are out now walking these roads, on the lookout for that one that we know must be somewhere, also out walking down other, similar, roads on the lookout for someone like us.

We hope we will know it when we meet, but live each day in the fear that the one we are looking for has already passed us by on some distant street, long ago, walking on without even a second glance.