shannon raze you wouldn't remember me. i'm almost sure of that. but i remember you. your chin-length brown hair. your courage. the expression of terror on your face when you bloodied my nose without meaning to. how we shared the love that built between us in all the wordless ways children invent when they lack the language to give a voice to what they feel. the last day before you moved away, i hung ape-like from a steel coat hook and felt its neck snap between my fingers. i held it behind my back to make it disappear. we walked together past the playground, too sad to speak. you kissed me on the cheek and i let what i'd ruin die in the dirt. you came back to visit once on your birthday. the class sat cross-legged on faded carpet while you told us about your new school. i found a piece of candy on the floor. something someone else had lost. i made sure no one was looking before i ate it. i saw you at the wheels inn a few years after that. i'd never seen someone smile the way you smiled at me. and then you were gone. the year i turned fourteen i called every listed number from windsor to michigan with the last name i knew to be yours. none of the people who picked up were you. or your parents. or anyone who knew you. i couldn't even find you in my dreams. who would you be now? and would i know your face if an accident disguised as fate brought you back to me? 250716 what's it to you? who go blather from