Amy Conley

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.