Sometimes I wake up in a different room, lying barely covered
in a strange bed with an unfamiliar scent coating the oversized t-shirt blanketing my upper body.
The alarm clock across the room blinked
what I decided was an inaccurate time
based off the amount of sunlight peeking out from behind the corner of the sheet
taped to the top of the window seal in a poor attempt to keep the room in shadows.
The unknown room around me was messy but provided no comfort
like the clothes speckled floor of your apartment once did. Some mornings
I can’t even remember the name of the new, handsome man making breakfast
because you’ve infected my thoughts and clouded my mind
making it so I can’t leave you behind.
The smell of French toast circles through the air above me.
I hated the taste

but only you knew that. I managed to crawl out of that mysterious pile of sheets
and walk to stare in the cracked mirror.
Dazed and unaware of what happened the night before,
I realized I don’t even recognize who I am anymore.