"Dry Clean Linen Pants"

A note, a promise
a then-future, now-past version of someone I wanted
to be.
it all seems so silly now
dry cleaning and linen pants belong to generation I haven't grown
into
these things belong in the routine of my grandmother, muttering her to-do list as she wakes. A woman of rhythm.
a note on a whiteboard underneath the word "thursday"
it reads: *dry clean linen pants

more of a promise
to take care of yourself
or at the very least
maintain your
armor.

I never quite  noticed how many places a single person could be at once
until the day you were gone

my hands are slightly colder,
without yours intertwined to keep them warm

my bed is a bit emptier
without you to take up all the room

the crevice between my neck and shoulder
where I used to feel your warm breath now hangs with stale air

mix tapes overflowing with rhyme and melody
play with echoes through my car stereo
there's no one listening anymore