It's comforting to think
I might still someday be known.
that when I die,
someone might find these pieces of me
left behind
that a stranger
could read and know the me I am
when I forget to look in the mirror
and simply breathe
I know now,
I could never be known
by someone who sees me
and touches my hands
and thinks of my face
or the face of a child
or the face of a man
or the sound of my shy voice
or torrid laugh.
But someday, maybe,
these words will be read
and someone will feel them
and know