I know him, but I don't—
I think I know him, but I don't.
He's got blue eyes,
brown hair,
light skin—
An infectious smile,
a laugh—
always seems to outlast mine.
Ha.
Short, yet tall—
though not quite all there is.
I know him,
but I don't.
I know him,
but I don't.
I know,
I know,
I know...
No, I don't.
I can't hear what he says—
or see what he sees.
He's a mirror
that never shows me.
I can't understand him.
Neither can he.
Doesn't know me.
Doesn't even see me.
Yet when he was down,
I lifted him with a hand.
That face tells no lies.
He's grateful,
and I'm feeling just fine.
But I don't know him—
And neither does he.
Yet I think I know him—
just maybe.