A Mystery To Ourselves
When I kissed you as you left
today, we were as close as we could get
and yet we were still indistinct
to each other, from one another, thinking
different things together, separating.
We had been so close that what was on you
was now on me. I took your scent, tasted it,
carried it on my lips, the essence of you
with me still, in your absence. We had
been so close but still I could not know
what was in your mind, or in your heart.
We believe we know, we coupled folk, we
long-time lovers and lifers together, but
it isn’t true. We never do. I don’t know you,
you don’t know me.
Perhaps that is as it should be.
This may be true for all the others,
for all the unknown, untouched,
What we all know, if nothing else:
we are a mystery to ourselves.