They are me

When is a stranger a person. An experiment. It's not necessarily supposed to make sense.

Stranger sitting on a swing,
scraping their toes in the sand,
numbly glancing about
at the makeshift wonderland.

Predestined paths of noises,
of soft words and bright barks,
of orbiting laughter,
swirl like galaxies and the stars.

The spheres do not touch or reach
the strange cocoon of the swing,
The stranger stillness within
waits alone with their mystery.

Until there you are, you call their name,
then "their" is mine, and "I" am they.