People flit across your life like images on a television screen.
They light it up with different shapes and colors and motions,
but then they’re replaced.
In the end the screen is the same black rectangle it always was,
nor will anyone ever know what has danced upon it.
Not a ghost remains.
Once I was enthralled and moved and fascinated by you,
spent sleepless summer nights wondering how you were and whether you would call,
yet I have gone months and months without once thinking of you.
Yesterday someone reminded me of your existence,
and I only felt puzzled.
I’ll probably forget your name soon.
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