You were a phone number on a folded piece of napkin wedged inside the bottom of my purse where the matchbooks and chewing gum wrappers fell with all the change and lint and dried, uncapped pens
And I watched you float down and almost miss your mark when I emptied the bag above the trash to make room for other things that were lately.
I remember you writing then putting my pen inside your jacket pocket thinking to myself, "This is it, this is really it" when it wasn't.