I look at each man on the street and hope to find a spark or a hint of some sort. Could this be him? Maybe he is.
Maybe he does not want to be bothered by me.
I long to speak and shout out "DID YOU RETURN IT BACK TO ME? ? ? "
Some one out there found my diary, stolen from under my seat. Hidden and stuffed in-between valuables was my book with memories. Not so much valuable to the guys who took it, I presume. Somehow my thoughts were valuable to him. He kept my diary safe from rain, from wind. The streets, his home. He read my thoughts my rhymes and ravings and sheltered them Downtwown.
I look at my drawings and my memories as they are now with me in my house.
Ironically, my poetry travels more than me. Housed by him for many a night. Stunned at the hands returning my pages traced to me via numbers of friends scribbled in the margins. He instigated so much healing and so many little acts of kindness and of love.
Sometimes I want to meet you and thank you and learn to see the world through your eyes for one day. And sometimes I just want to pretend that every person could be you. Paying it forward endlessly never meeting you, but gliding down the fractal of time. Untill I find the approximation of what could be you.
