THE MAN WHO WAS NOT THERE

It's three weeks now since
I started my visits to the secret pond.
I stumbled upon it on my tear-blinded
walks in the woods.
Since then I have been a devoted visitor,
the only one who sought
the spiritual healing in its still waters.
But on that night I could not miss
the difference even in the air I breathed.
He was there...
for the very first time...
and probably the last,
I saw the man who was not there.
He stood in a spot not far from mine.
In the moonless night had I not focused
I would have missed him,
he was smoky-white,
I could almost reach through him,
his unusually long frail back
seemed stiffer than wood,
and the hairs on his head
were scanty long tendrils that made waves
in the slight blow of the night breeze.
There were no features on his face
save for the blank hollows
where his eyes were supposed to be.
But I bet my soul
there were tears streaming out of them.
His smoky hands and legs
faded away into the darkness.
Despite his physical unnaturalness,
there was nothing terrifying about him.
I oddly felt okay with his presence.
He gave me something bigger
to think about than my self-pity.
I wondered how many times he had seen me wailing,
cursing the heavens for my misfortune
because something about him 
told me it was not his first time there.
Here was a restless spirit
seeking the comfort of my secret pond
and all I have done was disrupt that peace
with my cries of self-destruction.
The lump in my throat dissolved.
My teary escapades saved for another day.
But for that particular day...
I walked home a changed man.