Fictitious stranger,

lover in my head,

mind intruder,

I wonder about you way too much.

Call me a psychotic overthinker, 

but I know you’ll exist someday. 

I think a lot about whether you’ll love in me the things I hate most 

or if you’ll show me that there is nothing to hate.

What could your name possibly be?

Are you my age or

will we be a fusion of generations?

I hope you come from a different world too, 

as mine gets too dark and boring most of the time;

you could be my escape.

Are you a frustrated artist too? 

Do you appreciate art but can’t seem to perfect yours? 

We could talk a lot about that, 

and I could be your muse.

I haven’t found mine. 

What are you into?

Dear possible significant other,

the truth is

I know nothing about you

except what’s mundane and expected,

like the amount of oxygen you need to breathe,

and that you dream about being loved too.

But I do know about our mutual dream

of holding hands 

to face a cruel world that won’t feel too cruel through

becoming, growing, and hoping,

together.

Future platonic crush,

nameless and ageless,

what we have is anonymous 

and entirely invisible.

I don’t know your colors yet,

skin, eyes, hair.

I’ll love in black and white for now,

I’ll love blindly.

Oh but I do know something, pre-destined soulmate.

I know that

your heart must be a genuine one,

loyal and fair,

determined, but sensitive,

compassionate and passionate,

forgiving, but not too much –

for mine would never fall but for its kind.

I know that you exist somewhere.

How much longer will love make us wait?

Are you ever going to show up?