So you meet someone.
You keep your distance.
Glance at her once in a while.
Glance too much it almost feels like staring.
You say to yourself you’ll ask her name the next day.
She smiles at your attempts to be funny.
You’re not funny.
It’s churning up in you to ask her name and start a conversation.
You still don’t.
You go to sleep, trying to guess her name.
You think of her eyes and her smile and her subtleties.
You still don’t know her name.
It’s the last day.
You walk together.
You want to speak.
Now, it’s time to go home.
You don’t see her for a last time.
You don’t see her eyes.
You don’t see her smile.
Your words are left unsaid.
She probably won’t remember you.
The memory will knock on you forever, that you never asked.
She still remains.
It’s everything about her, and she will ever be.
It’s everything but her name and her voice that you will never hear.