PASSING stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you, You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me, as of a dream,) I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you, All is recalled as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured, You grew up with me, were a boy with me, or a girl with me, I ate with you, and slept with you-your body has become not yours only, nor left my body mine only, You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass-you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return, I am not to speak to you-I am to think of you when I sit alone, or wake at night alone, I am to wait-I do not doubt I am to meet you again, I am to see to it that I do not lose you.
— Walt Whitman