Second Strangers.

We’re second strangers, you and I, because I don’t know the person you are in this exact moment. I don’t know the guy who emails me out of the blue for internship advice, who inquires about places to look for cheap housing here in the city. The guy who ends his emails with “regards.” I don’t know you and yet I do. I know the spot to kiss above your collarbone that will make you go wild. I know that you surprised yourself and almost felt ashamed that you didn’t cry at your grandmother’s funeral. And when I last saw you after almost a year, I realized that no matter how much time goes by, my mind would find it easy to keep loving you. Because for me, love is not a switch I can turn off and it never will be. But I also remember that when I saw you that last time, and you got up to get dressed and leave, there was a tattoo above your ankle. I know it's silly of me, because we hadn't really spoken in about a year, but I was hurt that you hadn’t told me about it. And that confirmed it: we’re second strangers. I know you and yet I don’t, and that breaks my heart all over again.