I am no longer me
But pieces of others
Put together by fragments
Of a memory

You’re long sleeved pink shirt
The one I wore after spending the
Night, in your tower of a bed
I thought it fit just right

The umbrella you left by the door
Still shaking from the rain
It’s been here for eight days
But I haven’t reminded you to come pick it up

You’re lights with laser pointers
And black-light parties
Where we laugh and slosh alcohol on the floor
In cups we can’t afford

But I keep waking up to piles of empty
Beer cans, and a vacant bed

The note you gave me
When I sat in the passenger seat of your car
Staring at the hollow parking lot
We thought it was over

I shook more than I cried,
I thought I was over

It’s been months now
Since you flew to Florida
But I still keep the note in my wallet

I know you’re gone
But I want to let you know
The ink is fading fast

I am not me

I’m your sweatshirt
And his worn out blue jeans
Holes still fresh in the pockets
My things keep falling out

I’m the t-shirt you used to work out in
I’m the dollar bill
We use to snort up our confidence

I’m the empty container
Of Mary J. that I wished
We could’ve smoked together

I’m a darker shade of brown in my hair
I’m the **** of your cigarette
I’m the first one drunk on Friday nights
And the last one to wake up on Sunday morning

I’m no longer me
Can’t you see?