You’re never getting those clothes back, the shirts that found their way into her wardrobe, covering a person you’ve seen at their most bare. They don’t belong to you, not anymore; she never belonged to you, only found her way into your covers.
You still wear pieces of her, walking down Merrimon Avenue, in one of her favorite outfits, feeling so warm that you have to go home, and change.
It’s okay.

After a summer of tree-nut allergies, you close your eyes to cross Merrimon Avenue, mouth full of sips, trying to prove that you can stay empty. If your job keeps scheduling you full-time hours for minimum-wage compensation, you will show your gratitude by eating handfuls of walnuts, hollowing your desire to spend a night on the street, with another person, eyes closed, a bed-lump for a passing car.
You spat out everything, when you saw two children running down the double-yellow line; they reminded you of waking up.
Doesn't this feel a bit tedious, some work you don't want to do?
Why have you been practicing winking, started brushing your teeth with a spirit?
You were going to buy a bus ticket for an answer, held a conversation past the minimum. Your job gives you free meals, even if it's killing you. You have places you want to go, people you want to lead away from empty.
They make a peanut-butter alternative, out of roasted soybeans, and it tastes good enough to remind you of everything you can do with a summer.
Get some rest.