My stranger calls me in the middle of the night.
He knows me not but recalls me clear.
He owns no sense of humor,
Only a smile he wears in my memory ;
No scratch that, i hear him smile because he calls in the wee hours.
My stranger makes me happy
He will support me by making facials and using gestures
Articulate, right? Right.

I tend to think this is perfect,
Yet I find cloggings of lies beneath his eyes.
I tend not to think about it, for he blinds me with a cloud of care and listen.
My stranger hides his identity in a small cacoon I am trying to find not.
Disturbances of thoughts make me want to search every part that makes him my stranger.
I want to own him, let him call me stranger, get lost in a world that questions not who we are.
I want to toss and turn in a ryhthm that speaks to us in a simultaneous equation equating me and him to a plus one equals we, but, the attachment makes him grow stranger in all ways I can tap not.
Amazing right? Right.
...
My stranger is mad at me;
I guess somethings should stay hidden in the past but my mind can stop not to wonder how we got there. A small apology and things be good, I guess the truth better be hidden.
I am fed up of calling him stranger,
I want the sweet dally words
Honey, princess, sweet words that echo all the way to the deepest corners of my still heart, readily waiting to hear, him whisper the words.
Interesting, right? I guess



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