by Ellery Pridgen

What’s in a name? I forgot yours long ago. But I don’t need your name to remember how you

cried in my hotel room, and how I wanted to hug you but I didn’t want to be that girl.

I think they ask you all the time. What was the name? And you don’t remember mine.

But you don’t need to, in order to think of me the way that you do (you did!).

And even though it's been a year since that fatal collapse (4 dead, 5 trapped) The one where I got

in a plane and my heart caved in and the great black maw of it all ate those miners.

I still write about you.

I write everything I can think of, but it’s still not enough.

It doesn’t bring you back, or here to me. No amount of words could do that.

And one day (if not already) you’ll forget about me, I’ll forget about you.

Don’t we forget the minute we start lives apart? If not, do we leave a piece behind?

Do you still have a fragment of me, and I one of you?

Please, if you have a piece of me left, give it away. Sell it to a pawn shop. Float it down a river.

Whatever you can do.

I need it to get it back