Strangers in the Night
It’s not the first time she’s told me
the story of her life,
and I’m sure it won’t be the last.
“You don’t have to listen to this,”
She says, not sure whether or not
I’ve heard it before.
After twenty-five years together,
we still feel, at times, like strangers,
Who have just met and are trying,
to get to know each other. I take
whatever I can from her story,
whatever strikes me, and I feel less
Distant from her, though I know there are
where neither one of us wants to go.
We are passengers on a bus, travelling
to a place we’ve never been, excited,
In a heightened state of awareness,
but at the same time
wary of what awaits us, unsure
if we will be able to tell the difference
between what is real and what is not real.
She had a full, rich life before we met,
most of which
I know nothing about and never will.
So who is she? My wife, but that’s just
a cold fact. Inside her head, where she lives,
Who is she? It’s not her intention,
to shut me out, but every day
she remembers less and less.