Perspective

That moment stepping on a bus

crossing the yellow line,

unconsciously meeting eyes

and you realize

There are infinite of these systems

that don't connect

although the plugs are open

and electricity's free.

It's too much trouble for a spark.

Maybe, being on the same mother-board

you share something more than space.

Silver threads turn blood red when there's talking along them.

Shared time, shared blood, the shearing of skin

peeling back of flesh

sowing the spices of self

into the communal stew.

That feeling of stranger-ness

that you're someone's weird cousin

someone's twisted sister

that quiet kid in high school English

that girl on the bus

looking lonely through the misty window.