Every now and then, an entity would walk along whose face was not completely blank. 
My heart would leap, charged with rapture and a sparking passion at seeing a face that could have been yours. 
My legs would falter, dizzy with the beautiful recognition of a presence that could have been yours. 
My mouth would open as if to form your name, the fluent syllables materialising on the tip of my tongue, reacting to the sense of perfection that could have been yours.

But it wasn’t you. 
A second look at the face would reveal that it wasn’t complete.  The only thing that matched my mental depiction of you was its nose. 
The rest of its face was blank, like all the other faces. 
The face was like yours, but it wasn’t you.