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I find it written in a hand
other than my own,
nestled in the back pages of an old and
seldom used notebook.
Seven numbers written across
the page, ignoring
the lines on the paper as if saying they are too
noble for such small constraints.
No name accompanies it, nor
phrase to escort it
that would allow me to connect it to some scene,
or moment, that hangs just on the fringe of recollection.
And regardless of the cricket
calls and the moon
hanging like a lazy autumn day on the horizon,
I can't help but fight the urge to call.
Instead I am left wondering if your curves match.
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