The Stranger

The cold winter wind rustles his hair
As he stands alone on the terrace
Gazing, lost, towards the calm Sea
While smoking the hundredth cigarette
Of the night

He thinks about her,
The girl in his dream,
Wandering through the world
Alone
Yet belonging to someone else
Someone
Who isn’t him

She’s got black hair and sad eyes
And a penchant
For lost causes
There’s a darkness to her
Of the tragic sort
That people run away from
All those people
Who aren’t him

“They’ll never understand her”
He whispers lovingly
And soft plumes of smoke
Escape his lips
Like ghosts of words
He doesn’t dare say
Words that confess
The terrible truth
That she isn’t real

He shakes his head and sighs
Closing his eyes
Exhaling the remainder of the
Specters from his chest
Getting ready to go back inside
To lie next to a girl
Who isn’t her
And fall asleep
To forget

The moon quivers in the distance
Over the quiet Sea
Bathing the naked trees in silver,
Washing over their branches
And into the streets
Spilling towards him
To catch the tears
Running down his cheeks
And turn them
Into its light
Before he walks away

Somewhere,
With black hair, sad eyes
And a penchant for lost causes
She wakes up
Having dreamt
For the hundredth time
Of a boy crying
Over the sea,
Under the moon,
Begging her
To come back home

Foto: Răzvan Goldstein

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