I once heard someone say, “you may know what I am, but who I am you don’t know.”

It stuck in my head for some reason and I’ve found I have to ask you now; “who do you think I am?”

I know you think you have uncovered all there is to me: some reluctant clown whose life was nothing more than some silly fiction. Hardly difficult to unravel is it?

The enigma’s barely there.

It’s ironic I suppose, because I tried so hard to try to teach you to laugh. It never occurred that you might be laughing at me. Well, you seem to like it when I’m feeling down, so just as long as you’re happy I’ll keep myself crawling across the floor for you with these chains around my legs.

Even now I can feel you smile.

Although I do confess I can’t seem to stay sober when I’m dreaming of you and I still enjoy the memory of your smiles.

We wrote our stories between the lines of love letters we never had the guts to send and after pleading with someone to read them, we cry over the realization that all roses have thorns and make empty vows to love orchids instead so we don’t get cut.

Which makes me wonder; is anything built to last?

And have you considered that maybe our skin is just too soft. Orchids are rare anyway.

I waited like a Geisha until dawn for you and I wondered if you were some bizarre dream; beautiful yes but bizarre nonetheless.

When the sun rose and shed light on the shadows you should have cast , I realized you were a dream or rather, an idea that could never become a reality.

That, I’ll admit, was a shock; it seemed as though I had been staring into a two way mirror, convinced you were my reflection.

As for me knowing you, well, I guess we were far too alike to last for too long. I thought you should know that I still have a few secrets hidden in my shirtsleeves; your clown has become a magician and I don’t think you’ll have much luck figuring out my tricks.

The longer you stare the more confused you get.

And it’s no good to pretend you don’t remember; what good will it do to forget?

You will wonder where the scars came from.

Like I said, we were too alike to last for too long. Perhaps you were once my reflection.

A strange paradox.

(c)a.Stewart