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I saw you, the other day. But it wasn’t you. I was sitting opposite the stoplight, windows down, music up. Taking in the summer’s beginning. You, but not you, Matt, was in a old beat up bench seat black truck. Sitting opposite the stoplight from me. Though, I couldn’t tell it was you, Matt, at that moment. Matt doesn’t drive a truck. Instead a dark purple Cherokee with the back windows busted out, and a few inches of lift. That threw me off a bit. But as the light turned green, and we closed in on each other, recognition set it. It was Matt. Which reminded me of you, who is not Matt. We were right next to each other, ”Hey Zo.” Matt, you, said. Extending the ”o” and sending the pitch up and down. ”Sup Matt?” I smiled back. Someone was in the seat next to Matt. I wished it was you. But it wasn’t. Months had gone by, and I had almost gotten you out of my direct memory. Almost washed you away. But Matt. He came along. For what was a few minor minutes of my life, but what seemed to stretch on forever. He brought back you. Every single memory, when I saw his face, I remembered yours.