Room crossed to outstretched hand
How are you, said in that way
That knows me, my soul, my innards
But you, unknown.
Conversation dives deep, quick
Entranced, enchanted by proximities
No foreign language, gestures
This is the common in communion.
Familiar strangers who ignore passersby
No excuses, just hands held tightly
Words said without need, expression
Somethings fit together, pieces reunited.
Adam F.C. Fletcher 