We are Strangers

We are strangers.
Simply put, we are strange unto each other
now.
Tempers fret and salted wounds tear open.
Memory claws through scarred tissue,
though we scream, and numb, and ignore.

We are strangers.
We easily assume, and are equally betrayed
now.
Muscled, predicted rhythms carry old energy.
No matter how many erasers are rubbed, piled,
the potential of ached nostalgia proves indelible.

We are strangers.
Simply put, the see-saw we sit on mocks us
now.
Disappointment, honest rage, and withered hope
are not enough to mask the permanent familiarity
which haunts our strangeness, reminding silently.