I search for a crack in your armour so that I can feel I know you a sliver more than everyone else does. More than you want me to know.
I look for those words and try finding an origin to them. As if they aren’t for anyone else to use, and that you must have been the only one wise enough to coin them.
I scour the pages day in and out, of all the clues I have of your existence. Just so that when we meet- if we meet, I have a surprise trivia answer if you ask me to guess something about you, so that I can pretend that I had no clue how close I was to the real answer and not tell you the answer itself. So that I surprise you by guessing so much about you that you’re flattered, and so that you’re overwhelmed.
I look for a face every day- a face you refuse to show me, but my mind refuses to stop imagining and my imagination tries to fit with the people around me; knowing that somewhere, we are connected. That a link exists between the two of us before I stumbled on to your turf, and before I refused to leave.
In every image you put up, so that I catch a glimpse of your skin. So that I can wonder even more about how you must have felt that paper in your hand as you held it up to click a photograph of or how your fingers crease at points that I’d love to be familiar with when I hold them.
Every time you send out words into the world, I hope to be the one interpreting them the way you hear yourself say them. I want to hear you scream, to hear you whisper and I want to hear you state blandly that this is what you think, because I want to be your mind and your words someday. At least the subject of them.
All this, when I still wonder what your name must be.
An essay without agenda, a party without purpose.
A faceless, nameless lover’s mark.