My dresser drawer still smells like you.
That's why I always keep it closed.
I do not remember what you smell like,
I also don't remember what the hell is in that drawer.
That's close to meaningless considering
I somehow still remember your birthday,
and your middle name,
and the way you like your noodles cooked.
I hate that I have such a great memory
and I love when I forget,
because I worry you forget that I existed.
Like a bad dream you once had,
you've grown out of it.
I've grown out of you,
and maybe I've grown out of the shirt of yours
still sitting in that drawer.
I guess I do remember what's in that drawer.
I hate that I remember,
but love that I forgot
the way you smell,
because smelling is tasting,
and I could not bear to taste you once again.
The aftertaste of regret still lingers
when I hear her name.
I wonder if she tastes like me.
Like me,
the me I couldn't be.