The Distant Man

Perhaps he exists right now, somewhere—
in a city, on a street, in a room,
looking at this same moon from his window,
thinking what I think:
that somewhere there is a man
who would understand his silence,
who would mirror back his loneliness,
if only we could meet.

But fate—this cruel tailor—
never cuts our fabric to fit together.
He remains in his life,
I in mine,
and we both grow old,
and we both write,
and we both look out our windows,
hoping to see a man's face
that might feel like home.

And perhaps we will die.
Apart. Different years,
different beds,
different cities,
never knowing:
if we had walked the same street,
if we had reached for the same book
in some bookstore,
we would be together now.

Fate is not cruel.
Only blind.
And we—who can see—
suffer from its blindness.

But if he exists—and he exists—
then he is thinking of you right now.
Somewhere.
A man who has loved other men,
and searches for you among them.

And this thought—your thought of him, his thought of you—
this is already a meeting.
Quiet. Invisible.
But more real
than many visible touches.

Do not say we die alone.
For if he exists,
and you exist,
and you both think of each other—
then you are not alone.
Only distant.
And this distance—this painful, beautiful distance—
will one day close.

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