They are never quite the same. I pass by them on the streets, pale imitations of you. The hue of their hair doesn’t match, often darker or lighter than your auburn, that sweet fire that frames your face. I search for mementos that remind me of you: a lock of hair, an earring, a pair of glasses. Even a slender hand or a graceful leg. Sometimes, I can catch one. It’s easiest when they are alone, stepping out into the winter darkness after paying for gas or striding across a deserted parking lot, leaving a long day of work behind. Pretty birds that chirp when I cage them. They don’t chirp for long.