I made four blueberry muffins for breakfast. I wore a sweater three sizes too big, and sat on a futon two sizes too small, reading a book I've only halfway finished in twice the amount of time it would take to write it. I drove without my windshield wipers on, three-quarters hoping I wouldn't make it a quarter of the way across town. I tried to picture myself walking around without pulling my past along behind me. I tried, but that doesn't matter. **** today. I only thought about you while they were in the oven. I only pictured you waking up and feeling okay every time I turned the page. I leaned over and looked through the right side of my windshield to see the view you once had. And the scars on my palms are reopened every day as I drag around everything I cannot let go.