Strangers: Staring At

What grief you tuck beneath your scarf. What dream you chase, what ghost you laugh. I’ll never know. The doors all close. The train pulls on. The stranger goes.

And still I stare—not rude, but human— a quiet spy, a clumsy student. For in your walk, your scar, your yawn, I glimpse the light I’ve never drawn. Staring at Strangers

A furrowed brow, a bitten lip, a wedding ring’s faint silver slip. A child’s torn shoe, a soldier’s limp, a gaze that wanders, lost and dim. What grief you tuck beneath your scarf

On the train, in the square, through rain-washed glass or summer air, I trace the maps of stranger-faces— each one a door to hidden places. The doors all close

Here’s a short poetic piece inspired by : "The Unseen Gallery"

I stare too long—I know I shouldn’t. I lean in close when no one would. But every silence begs a story— each flicker holds a fleeting glory.

So yes, I stare. Let me confess: you are my temporary guess at how a soul, without a name, can make me feel less strange, the same.