What if imagination is a decaying sense, only temporarily kept alive like a fading memory
of the letters I once wrote? For instance, the other day I was going through the laundry
and found in the inside pocket of my jacket an old coffee shop bill with a note on the back:
“Your lips have no eyes; my eyes have no lips—we are complementary entities.” I recall
that tingling feeling when we walked with cups, holding hands, unaware it was the last time
in a crowd where no one looked at us, and you liked it that way, regretting only that real life
has no soundtrack. Then, for a while, our hands practised irrelevant gestures to pass the time
between meals and sleeping hours. I know; I never asked why you decided to run into me.
You never asked why I left, either. Perhaps we were always just perfect strangers in disguise,
rehearsing another day of their drama on paper.