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....