Staring At — Strangers

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. Staring at Strangers

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. I stare too long—I know I shouldn’t

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. without a name