You wore a black, soft North Face jacket and now everyone who wears one is you.
And anyone who wears any flannel.
Or perhaps has long, dark brown hair.
Ripped jeans.
Grey tank top.
*****, worn combat boots.
They are a heart attack and a heartache.
They're a shot of adrenaline and a longing sadness.
A spit in the face and an encouraging nod.
And of course I can not get away because they surround me.
You surround me.
Yet you're not here.
So all their faces blur into the back of my mind to create a sewn up, ratty, old you.

This is better than being alone.