I think of you often
More often than I’d like to admit
The ifs and whys and hows of our-

Of our what?
We never really settled on the what
When I talk about you now you are just a code name, a pseudonym, a patient number

I deliver my friends countless never ending monologues about you
And although I never mention your name–the real one not the number–they know exactly who you are

And although I giggle at the nickname we chose for you
It only exists because I feel strange saying your actual one
Saying it would suggest I knew you
It would suggest that I was familiar with you
That at some point we surpassed being strangers
More importantly, it would remind me that even though I know the intimate details of your body, we are now estranged, again
Your once familiar name, now just stares at me in confusion, asking
”Who are you?”

I can’t answer
I can’t tell you who I am to you because the what was never established
We never made it that far
After two months I’d known you for two years
And after two years I’ve only known you for two months

It’s pathetic the way I mourn you
Disproportionate truly
But with these anonymous words, I can confess
I hope you feel the same
I hope my name makes you feel empty inside
Because saying it feels forbidden somehow
Like you can’t just call a stranger by their name

Maybe this would be the perfect time to say “right person wrong time”
And maybe I hope one day we’ll get the timing right
So I use these vague adverbs to avoid confessing that I wish our story gets a sequel

But
I don’t want to be stuck in a loop of Instagram stalking and internet searches
So I’m going to start saying your name
Because I need it to feel strange
And I need us to be strangers, again