It was a whisper in my day, seven quick
words against stark white to remind me who I am:

I am the words spilling from the point of
my Pilot XGrip, carefully ordered to represent
my wandering mind.

I am a mess, the pile of laundry huddled next
to an overflowing dresser, a muddled sea of
organized chaos.

I am movement caught in the stillness of a
photograph, the buzzing blood flow of
finding moments.

I am summer, a sticky shirt and 4 am with
your arms draping over my shoulders for
the second time.

I am flapping wings and shattered thoughts, a kiss,
and eyes one inch from mine yet I have no idea
what color I am.

I am you.
And even still I am him,
the you that came before you.

I am six months ago, the night I teetered on
the railing long enough for him to tell me how
pretty I looked.

I am the stairs he joined me on, the hide out from
the party he invited me to and I couldn’t quite
fit in with.

I am train seats
and crossword puzzles,
strange professors
and picnic tables.
I am orange cheese puffs
and little kids answering
grown up questions.

I am you,
the other you,
the better you,
the you that got away.