Concealed and loving
in the grayness
of an empty room.

Who are you
and who am I?
Would love concealed
release of the wraps of anonymity?

Are we drawn like magnets?
Inexorably abused by fate.
Is love the end result
of random chance?

Are we individual at all,
or just a colony of wanting souls,
seeking solace
in the arms of strangers?

And in the end,
with our lives revealed,
does it matter past the comfort
Of a loving touch?