Glance

I thought I knew you, thought perhaps that I owned some small part of you as if by knowing it I could claim it with the jealous word "mine." But you have reminded me that this is not so. In your shadow lies the invisible trail of history, of life lived without me in it. So much (how much, I cannot comprehend with percentages, mathematic formulas) of your present is alien to me, shaped by forces I will never experience as you experienced them. I would breathlessly dare to call you friend, but as I looked into your eyes, I realized that you were wholly separate, wholly distinct, entirely self and not of myself or, but for barest contact of lifestream brushing against lifestream, concerned with myself. I do not know you. I cannot know you. And that is the mystery that makes you so beautiful to me.