I looked for you but you were someone else. Your name was the same, uppers and lowers in the right places. The photo couldn’t lie the way some do: I’ve seen a professional go to work and smooth broken skin like custard.
You reminded me of islands in your absence. I was the water and the land and the lighthouses and lifeboats; you were somewhere else.
None of my tools mattered, weren’t solutions like prayer is in some sectors or helplines can be for right problems. My words fit crosswords but not the hole in your lip or your nose bridge or your left hip, more prominent than the right.
I imagined ransoms and a man search and a bot crawling through pages, lists, numbers, parsing your constructions.
My cursor didn’t pop on your name, didn’t flash your profile. It sat simply, like the internet did in the nineties, and you became Benjamin Allen, the next one.