To You

There’s a certain serendipity in our collective experiences, isn’t there? The wombs that carry us, the blood that flows in our veins, the walls that protect us or break us down; everything seems designed to make us different from each other. And yet, like divergent short stories whose plot lines intersect seamlessly, the pages that form our lives seem to be written by the same hand.
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Truths we divulge cautiously, fly like paper planes fluttering through uncertain updrafts. Some land in safe hands, others disappear into the ether, never to be uttered again. Conversations over red wine and cigarettes lead to revelations that shift the plates that steady our relationships.
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There seems to be some invisible thread connecting the humanity of our shared experiences. I may have lived a life far removed from yours and yet I wil understand the rise and fall of your chest for what it is. I will be able to tell from the timber of your voice when someone’s toxic words left the sides of your heart with jagged edges. Your eyes will betray you as I peer against your will, into that moment when your boss humiliated you or you found out about an unfaithful lover.
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You see, we’re more alike than different. My skin, eyes and wavy hair are just totems of that same grand lottery that makes princes of some folk and paupers of others. At our core you and I are same. You and I were meant to be each other’s.
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So when you lie down at night and stare at your ceiling, remember these words. I may have lived a life far removed from yours and *yet* I wil understand the rise and fall of your chest for what it is. I *will* be able to tell from the timber of your voice when someone’s toxic words left the sides of your heart with jagged edges.
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You are not alone. I see you.
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And for all you know, I too could be lying down somewhere, staring at my ceiling; alone in a room bathed in moonlight, hoping that someone, somewhere sees me too.