You don’t know my name,
or the way that I look,
but I somehow found your name
in a book.
Your number was on it, missing the code,
just as you’d left it when you took for the road.
I don’t know your face,
but I do know your name:
first half is Amy,
the other erased.
Or scratched out, rather;
at least part of it is.
We met at Frederick’s
and only briefly,
and you left only a name and a number
that made me wonder
if we would ever meet again.
It’s been years now,
and now it seems
that our paths will never meet again.
“Such is life,” I feel resigned to say
as I discard that image of you crafted with pen.
It’s not amazing generate an imagination that could break barriers through writing