Apples

Poetry

An open letter

to a person who doesn’t exist.

.

Dear stranger,

.

I am not a stalker,

I am just a street walker,

an observer, a flaneur.

.

And I just want to say

a few things to you.

.

I love your green eyes,

I love your green hair,

I love your green skin.

.

You are exotic and hypnotic

and I am infatuated

with the way

you smell of green apples,

.

like you do nothing all day

but bake apple pies,

.

and you have flour

smashed

across your forehead.

.

Your hair is tied back

however you feel like it

.

and people look in your window

and see a domestic woman

who is nothing more

and nothing less

than the space gifted to her

by man.

.

No.

You choose to be there.

.

The sweat on your brow

is proof of your effort,

your deliberation

and determination.

.

Your eyes could move mountains

if you want them to.

They could destroy cities.

.

Instead they fold pastry

and watch the oven.

.

Patiently,

my sweet,

the pastry will rise.

.

Your name,

I can’t stop

thinking about it.

What it could be.

For something I don’t know,

I can’t stop

thinking about it.

.

I saw you on the train.

I was the guy

with the red eyes

and red hair

and red skin,

.

much the same

as any other schmuck

trying to blend in,

.

while you look

and act so free

like a warrior

you could be who you want

and act

as you please

.

and I see you on the train

being who you are

and I,

the observer that I am,

see you baking

pies with a passion

.

and you fold the pastry

and watch the oven.

.

Patiently,

my sweet,

the pastry will rise.

.

And by then

I hope

to know

your name.

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