Man of Mystery

A Poem by Lydia Jamison

I can't tell you anything about a mystery...

In the silence of the late afternoon sunset,
I listen to the soft pitch of guitar chords,
Humming along with a voice that only a dream could conjure.

This is all I have of him,
The mystery of a man in my head.
I wonder why there aren't more men like him
Roaming this dark, desperate world.

I lay back on my blanket as the sun falls
Behind the hills and clouds.
The evening breeze ruffling my hair
As I drift away into my mind.

As the city sleeps,
I listen while he reads to me,
Clouding out the noise.

He stands on the top of buildings,
Looking out into the black sky
Where there are no stars,
For there are too many lights on earth.

I've heard him say once
That he wished for stars in the city.
That it would make the sites more beautiful.

I know barely anything about him,
He knows nothing of me.
We are oceans apart,
Standing on different shores.

Every time I try to swim across,
I get trapped in the tide,
Drowning under the cold, blue waves.
But I always end up drifting, either way.

So, for now, he remains a mystery to me.
I can see his face,
A perfect reminder of what true beauty is,
But I can barely see beyond the surface.

And what am I to him?
Just a faint breeze,
Soft music in the background,
Overlooked at first.

But we all learn to look beyond the surface
At some point in time.
I just keep waiting until he sees me.
Finally.