Some days I feel as if I don't know myself, not one bit,
Because I don't know you.
I don't know what you were like when you were weak.
I don't know what you were like when you were wrong.
I'm trying to grasp onto a fragrance of you,
of me.
I cant find you anymore, or hear your faint voice
or feel the prickliness of your unshaved thighs on my cheek.
All I have now are cut strings that traced back to you before your eyes went blank.

A strange man answered your phone and told me to go home.