I wrote this poem for you.
You wonder how this could be,
since we’ve never met.
You think I would need to know
at least a few things about your self
before I could make such a claim.
You think, perhaps, that our two bodies
should have shared a room at least once
before I could even consider
such a crazy idea as writing
this poem for you.
Or at least they should have
heard one another speak.
You would feel better, anyway,
if at least I had some physical artifact
produced by your corporeal manifestation
by which I could glean a couple of
juicy tidbits about what it is to be you.
Something you’ve written.
A fingerprint, a third grade sketch,
a picture of you posing by Big Bird.
What if we’re wrong about all that?
What if we could write poems
for each other all the time
without such chains of evidence?
I’m not talking about anonymity,
or not looking in one another’s eyes.
I’m not talking about escaping
the perils and wonders of physical presence.
I’m talking about realizing,
deep down, we already know
who we are…
So I wrote this poem for you.
Because you’re not here…
And I love you.
And neither am I.