the lost man chronicles
the daily chronicle

the pulse of the ethereal stranger


i do not see her, i cannot hear her,
nor smell or even—touch her.
but, even though, although, albeit, even if!
i believe i do not love her
i can feel her, and maybe,
that is, a strange, love.

this ethereal stranger visits me often—
sometimes, in the dead of night,
right before she goes to bed.
sometimes, instead, she watches me
in the wake of day, when, in a weirdly
wonderful way, she tells me she is mine too,
if only at this sacred time—of 2:22.

who is this elusive woman? i know. and then,
i don’t. i wish i did, even if she won’t.
so, i must go on watching her watching me
and solely smiling, in grateful reply to her eye
and inquisitive dedication.

i suppose (sigh).
but, quite honestly, i know better,
i know the whetter feel of touch, the better sense of being,
the stealing smell of anticipation and exaltation
that musty wafts of bliss bring. i know these things,
but just not with her.

but, somehow, i
can still feel her—


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