I saw you had written my name in the back of your book and fell to thinking stories about it. Was this the tale of how, after days and nights and months and years, you found your way to your only true love? Was it a permanent reminder of how the universe had fore-written our lives, how the or the way had found you?Was it just one of many examples of how you left my name everywhere, signing your path through the world?

With a needle and a pen I scratched your name beneath my skin and wore long sleeves to catch the blood.

Yesterday I saw your book left open at my name page but my name had been written in pencil and now only its shadow remained.

My arm itched and my eyes prickled. The afternoon and evening and long night passed somehow and now I write new stories.