you see a sight of me that I wouldn’t recognize.

this dingy pane, smudged and fogged rests loosely in a frame of missteps on a weathered, cracked sill of distance.

And when I peer through it dimpled, dirty, warped - the person I see in you would seem a stranger even to you.

When you gaze through at me past the stains, the cracks and waves you see a sight of me that I would not recognize.

Still glimpses of meaning survive, moments of clearly seeing, love: a touch of souls in spite of our solitude.

Darkly, dimly do we see each others’ solitary selves withdraw to shadows? Or celebrate that we can see into one another at all?