PERFECT STRANGERS

In a building,
in front of a computer,
she thinks half a thought
before she is distracted
by something beautiful.

In another building,
far away,
he smiled at nothing in particular
and words came to him,
the end of a poem
but he didn’t know how it began.

They are connected.
They could instantaneously solve the riddle,
if they only pulled at the strings
that each holds onto.

But they don’t know,
and it is enough
that they have made each other smile.

Give them time.
Lifetimes perhaps.
They are too perfect to never meet,
to never pluck
each other’s strings
in person.