For some people we'll be people,
flesh and blood or transparent,
talking of visceral notes,
strings, words and numbers.
For the rest
we'll only be
they met on a ladder
over a coffee
near the door
through the fishbowl
at the counter
in the queue
at the neighbor's party,
shared a laugh with (a la The Beatles and Bob Dylan)
drew some moments with,
made some long distance calls to,
chased bubbles with,
but didn't manage to cross over to the other side
as flesh and blood.
We will remain numbers to most.
(One of these days I am going to bounce back with gusto and write only about the lemon tarts I made, books I am trying to read, number of glasses of water I drink in a day, shopping I will never do, coffee mugs that I love to collect, all the other things I love to collect, etc. Till then I'm afraid it's going to be somewhat soppy.)