this moment between strangers

somewhere between the
strangers who turn into us,
and the strangers we inevitably become -
are the lives we occupy briefly
and imagine to be the whole of ourselves.

it seems i can no longer find time
to define time... and meaning... and underlying form...
and all those other things that occupied my mind so completely.
is life distracting me from the thoughts
or were the thoughts distracting me from life?
am i better off where i am or where i was?

was i a better stranger once?
will i be a better stranger hence?
am i at least half as far from who i was,
than from who i want to become?
can these things be measured
with any accuracy or meaning?

i know i cannot know for sure -
but it somehow pleases me that
i'm still the kind of person who'll ask
a purely poetic question.
if only to beg poetic answers.