Rarer still is the stranger not who looks at me and sees someone they see in themselves and that someone is in fact me and they smile and so do I and as I reciprocate I see that the invisible chasm widens not and, while I know that the yearning feeling is the song of everyone, I feel the maw has softened and now sings with me a rare and foreign burn of belonging, and of yearning not.
The Maw

Across the chasm, I see you. You are someone I see in myself. I see me in you. We are not the same and somehow we are. We belong. We yearn. We burn. We sing. Rare. Understand not.

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