I was once a stranger, your stranger.
Until you told me your name. But I guess that doesn’t make us any less of a stranger to each other.
You asked me if have some time to spare, maybe get to know you a little bit more. I guess what you should have asked is if I ever want to get to know you. But I nodded, because the night bored me, and because strangers are always nice people to talk to.
I can lie, and not feel guilty. I can lie, and still feel like I’m telling the truth. You wouldn’t really know, unless you spend some more days trying to know me. Strangers are like walking empty cans – you can dump anything and not feel sorry about it. After all, you’re just strangers who happen to share the same time and the same space at that very moment.
“I think people are helpless,” you said.
“I think you are helpless, and on top of that, pathetic,” I sneered. I didn’t want to buy your stories, I didn’t want to get amused by how differently you look at life.
“And you’re with me tonight, so I guess that makes us two helpless and pathetic people.”
“Who happen to seek comfort and temporary disillusionment through alcohol,” I intended to finish your sentence.
And as I looked at you, the more it felt like I’m conversing with a total stranger – and that invited me in. I wanted to get to know you, but remain innocent of your life. I didn’t want to be a part of you or your short stories; I just wanted to know, how life has been for you. And how I wished that you wouldn’t tell about me to the people in your life. That would make me something familiar to you; that would make me a part of you.
But the wrinkles on your face, especially the lines on the side of your eyes, they invited me in. I wanted to get close, get nearer, and see you from a comfortable distance. From a distance where no stranger would dare to go.
I wanted to stay innocent of you, and to not smell like you when I walk out the bar. I wanted no taints of you, no trace of us opening up to each other. But you were such an empty man.
And empty people are perfect lures for sad, and lonely people like me. I can’t tolerate too much positivity, and too much assurances. I like it messy, and chaotic. I like it empty, so I could fill in. I like it empty, so I wouldn’t feel more alone.
I never once opened up to you, and I hope you noticed that. You only knew my name; never my address, never my job, never my favorite color, never anything. And it never bothered you.
You only knew my number, and you kept calling me to keep you company. You said you wanted me, and that I was a good friend because I know how to listen. But see, not speaking is different from listening. You only want me as an escape. You only want me as a doormat, as a reassurance of your miscalculated decisions. You only want me, because I don’t tell you what and what not to do.
You’re tired of life and of everyone, and you want a perpetual stranger beside you. So you could rant, so you could be real and not be judged.
But tonight, yes this night, I want to open up. I want to break the gap, and the barrier separating me from you. I want to move away from being a stranger, to being someone you’d ask, “Where do you live?”
I want to tell you how I admire you, and how I wish people could’ve appreciated you a bit more. I wanted to ask, I wanted to be a friend. I wanted to be someone you know.
Because knowing too much about you and your misfortune lures me in. I like you and every single part of you that hurts. I like them, but I don’t want to heal them. I want them to hurt, stay there longer, and bruise or wound. I want you stained of your own mistakes, drowning in regrets.
Because you’re a human, after all. Knowing too much about you makes me want to kiss you, maybe in the forehead, and tell you, “Hey, it’s not okay, but guess what, I’m here.”
Seeing you like this – drenched in nicotine, and smelling like you’ve never washed your jacket – makes me want to kiss you. This time, maybe in the lips, so you can pull me close, and I’ll start to smell like you.
I want to know you, and be a part of you.
“Strange, huh? That the very moment we feel familiarity towards someone, we start to lose interest.”
You smiled, and left. And yes, I will always be your stranger.
I know you, I have always known you.
I have watched you from afar too many times that I know where you work, and where you live. I have watched you far too many times that I know exactly where to go that night to meet you.
“I think people are helpless,” I said lousily. I knew you were never the type to engage in a conversation with a stranger. You hate strangers; you detest the idea of not knowing. How do I know? I sit behind you in your favorite bars, and once, I heard you say, “Can’t we all be too familiar with each other and never have to worry about our safety? And never have to worry about being judged by how you look today?”
I wanted to get to know you, but I know you will never come to open up. You’re too afraid. You’re a living oxymoron; because despite your detesting the strangeness, you’re never the kind to keep people. You’re never the kind to attach yourself to people. You wanted to be familiar with people; but being familiar and knowing them are two different things.
I am familiar with your face, your smell, your favorite color, but I don’t know your story. I don’t know why you’re consistently wearing that frown. I am so familiar with you, and I hate it. Because it makes me want to know you.
So I called you from time to time, even if I knew you wouldn’t really speak up. I just wanted to see you, and be near you. I just wanted to remember how you smell, and take it with me when I get home.
You are an empty person. And on top of that, you’re a cold-hearted human-being. You don’t let people hurt you, because you’re afraid you might self-destruct, again and again. You don’t let people stay for too long, because you’re never used to holding on. You’re a master of letting go, and leaving people.
But never of staying, and keeping people.
You treat people like walking empty cans – like you can throw them off anytime, and not feel sorry about. You might even feel happy for throwing us out. At times, it invites me in; it makes me want to break the high walls. It makes me want to be someone who can be a part of you; someone you’ll tell your friends and blog followers about.
I want to be a part of you; an indispensable part of you. I want to be the person you’ll first call when you’re undecided. I want to be that person that you can’t leave, even with so many reasons that you can already have.
I want to kiss you now; I want to kiss all the parts of you. I want to taste your bruises and your wounds, and I want to taste like you.
If I ever kissed you, I will run my lips on your cheeks, and whisper to your ears, “Let your guards down, we’re both wounded people.
I’m not here to heal you, nor to break you. I’m here, just here.”
But if I did kiss you, I know I’ll never see you again.
So I’ll go instead, keep these nights in my head.
I want to keep you as my stranger.
