In a crowd of a million people, I’d know the back of your head. I’d be able to see you, pick you out; just give me a telescope and I’d find you. I know you.
Blindfold me, and let me touch a thousand hands. I’d pick out yours. I know your hand.
Have everyone I know write an anonymous message to me. I know what you’d say. If it were handwritten, I’d say know your handwriting.
Let me cover my eyes, and have people talk to me. I’d know who you are. I know your voice. I know your laugh.
I know your experiences, your secrets, your dreams. I know how to make you happy. I know what to say to make you smile; I know what not to say to piss you off. I know when to leave you alone, and I know when you need a hug.
So why do I have to be punished for knowing you?