Dear S,
I have always wanted to meet you; to walk right up and say, “Hi, I’m Lizzy. I see you here quite often, care to catch a spot of tea with me?”
But no, that’s much too forward, and even more formal, so instead we share head tilted glances across the crowded shop, until one of us ventures to smile and wave.
Like old friends. That’s what we are, isn’t it? We are two old souls milling about caffeine fueled Southern California like it is our eternal resting place.
Well I don’t know about you, S, but before long I’m going to blow this joint and hop me on the next train outa picture town. Maybe I’ll go somewhere by the sea, where the foam can rise up and carelessly wrap every inch of my body in thousands of tiny pieces of glass. That’d be lovely, to be covered so completely in something that was once translucent, but now envelopes the lines and flaws that years of earthly life can give you.
You know what I think S? I think that in another life, you and I could be dear friends. We could ride motorcycles through winding mountain trails, your manly long hair streaming from beneath a short black helmet, while I struggle to remember which hands reduces the speed. Or follow a ghostly pirate map to a distant country, only to learn it was upside down the entire time.
I’d like to get to know you, to be brave enough to venture into unknown conversation, to ask you what you draw while sitting in Starbucks before seven in the morning. But I know I never will, and we shall always be strangers.
-L
