Letters to Strangers

A collection of words regarding those we have yet to call friends


Surgery in the supermarket 


The loneliness hit me on that particular day;

When driving home I realized my mouth was 

Still sealed.

I’d roamed aisles of that store and 

Yes, I’d had so many thoughts,

Ideas, opinions, inquiries…

Yet my lips stitched closed and my gaze met no one new.


But maybe,

Maybe if you introduced yourself to my eyes,

Grinning wide to your wisdoms, 

I’d soften and gaze back.

And you’d pluck my sutures and grab my hand

And my love would come spilling out of me

Making a mess on the linoleum floor in aisle three


Selective Hearing


It’s no battle to see worth in a stranger,

Despite having never met them.

I pass by and swell at their beauty

With only a slight twinge of envy in my soul.

It becomes dangerous, at times, to admire someone 

And be clueless of their knowledge.

Their thoughts are whatever I say they are.

I have no perception of who they were

Or who they’re planning to be.


I hold my future in their thoughts 

and pretend that means anything.

I vicariously live through them 

and pretend that means everything. 

But what’s it to you if you won’t even give me a second glance?

Perhaps a glance is asking too much.


Maybe aspiring thoughts of my potential are all I need

And pretending that’s what consumes your subconscious

The way you consume mine.

Leaving me like I leave a good book read,

Struck with gratitude and relief 

at how one could know so much about my life

Without knowing me at all.




‘Why you look so beautiful in that red!’

Says a spaghetti-o stained mouth 

Paired with grubby hands and missing teeth

Leaving me with wonders of what sparked 

such a small brain to say something most intellects 

are so scared of.


I bet you as his words passed by the old spaghetti, 

he didn’t think twice about what others would think,

Or of rejection,

Or the million other reasons used to silence oneself.

Unapologetically he speaks his thoughts,

In a way I doubt I can achieve in my aching age.


Compliments are taken with twinges of strife,

But the words of a toddler are pure and vital.

His mother has raised him well.