The Man I Know Not

The man wore leather skin.

He was dressed in an ash grey suit with a single button on the knot of his striped tie. Black, shiny oxfords on the dewy, wet grass—motionless yet everywhere. He does not move, nor does he speak,

But every glance, every corner,

He is there, lurking and cutting the bushes.

The bushes surround a cemetery.

I hear strange noises, but they sound eerily friendly.

I do not explore it.

The inside of my car is cold.

I don’t remember going inside, yet here I am—frozen, blank, and partially wet.

I see the man in front of me.

He does not move—simply stares with his visionless mask.

The two buttons on the leather have no holes behind them.

Perhaps he travels by pure, golden luck.

It does not feel intimidating—no fear rushes in.

He is an entity, but not simply a life.

Serene, tranquil, beautiful.

A zipper lay where his mouth should be.

I see it move, yet I cannot hear him.

I hear words, but they do not match—they are not his.

It’s an answer.

His form remains still in the round patch of grass, and disappears once I look away. He seems to be gone now.

The sun shines bright through the broken clouds and crevices in the wall of bushes. A relief after the rain.

He whom I know not,

I cannot see, yet he remains still.

Written by Selen.