Reminder

I saw a girl on the train

with my name on her hand.

There it was,

written in black cursive

on that fleshy patch between

the thumb and index finger

of her right hand.

I’d never seen that woman

before in my life.

Could it be that

her husband or boyfriend

is also named T–?

Perhaps she wrote our name

as a reminder to break things off with us,

first thing after work

and before yoga class,

where she will stretch and lengthen

and exhale all her memories of us.

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