The Stranger

On nights so lonely and dark, they met. They met under correspondences sheltered with intellect, books and the written word. They shared opinions, debated on the art of storytelling, discussed literature and recommended movies. She confided in everyone and he trusted no one. She wanted to give everything and he nothing. She would ask, “What are you so afraid of? Just tell me”. He couldn’t get himself to admit that he wanted to remain a friendly ghost that passed by during her forlorn evenings, with nothing more than a name and detached stories to tell. They were so distant that their worlds seemed far from colliding. Little did they know that what they avoided was closer than expected.

On nights so lonely and dark, they would exchange words that led to laughs so loud and long that they connected continents. She spoke her mind without needing to think. He made jokes without needing to feel. They were one and the same, with one mind, one humor, one heart and one outlook. Nothing they did or said repelled each other.

On nights so lonely and dark, she glared at him under the starry sky with the hope that one day his eyes would not meet another’s with the same tenderness. She could hear the city he was in, loud and strange, imminent and far, holding the memories of her childhood and, from that moment on, of her lover. He was threatening and promising. He never looked nice. He looked like art, and art was never supposed to look nice, it was supposed to make her feel something. He was a poem that breathes, a poem that left her gasping for air. And gasp for air she did, under the lonesome starless skies with not even a sole at reach.

It was time to leave. That day was inevitable, and she knew it the same way she knew a flock of birds would migrate on that same autumn day, before the cold winter frosts came.

He’s the poison in her lungs

and the toxic in her heart

and the danger that was there from the start.

And now, she sits on her white desk, cluttered with memories of conversations and love, listening to Tchaikovsky’s “Swan Lake”. Like a swan that can’t fly, like the woman stuck in the swan’s body, she sat transfixed, trapped. There was no future and there was no going back to what they were.

So on the cold nights, when the radio plays what used to be their song, she would remember him and the way they swayed together between two different continents. To “Strangers in the Night” they danced and she loves him again, until Frank Sinatra’s enchanting voice dies. Then, she goes back to searching for another great love because the greatest love stories don’t have to last forever. They just have to last long enough for the heart to remember. Strangers in the night they were and have become once more.