i couldn't remember how i lost my handmade bookmarks; maybe i crumpled them mindlessly together with receipts and coupons and grocery lists. maybe they're hidden between the pages of a borrowed library book. i couldn't remember how i lost my gel pens and markers; maybe they're somewhere on a bus seat on the way to a different city; maybe they're left untouched on an armchair or on a table in overrated coffee shops i vowed to never enter again.

i couldn't remember how i lost the flowers i'd grown; maybe it was on that prom blurred like city lights with a guy named drew; i couldn't remember how i lost my favorite bracelet and my love for reading books while sitting on the toilet, couldn't remember how i lost my childhood best friend; maybe it was because i cut her doll's hair, or because i wouldn't let her play with my plastic cooking set.

but it was a warm, sunday night; the table was stained with cold soup and soda when you set down the spoon way too carefully and gazed at my eyes.

“i’ve fallen out of love.”

i’ve fallen out of love.

and i couldn't remember how i lost all the other things, darling but to this day, i still remember how i lost you that night.