The laptop heats my thighs
as I pursue your imprint.
Google throws up 16,300,000 results in 0.12 seconds.
Facebook delivers a hoard of possible yous.

You are an elusive ghost
in a city of doppelgangers,
always just disappearing
around the corner.

Each click is like
a tap on the shoulder in a crowded street:
the face revealed is never yours.  But there
you go again, breezing past
in the opposite direction.

I am Breathless: I am
The Man Who Loved Women.

I give up: the Diana Wright who is a **** star
is not you, but is quite distracting.
And I can't type poetry with one hand.