The numbers matter very little to me.

I am vaguely aware of them

But the interactions,

The ones whose name pops up

Time and again.

Their own words showing up for me.

The occasional comment.

The beginning to see outlines, and colors, flavors,

And eventually faces of strangers

Who carry their own story on their back like a stone no one sees.

In this vague, changeable, world inbetween the rocks and the ocean

Where the fog and mist soften the outlines of morning.