These things are souvenirs. Patchy pieces and unwashed t-shirts and bandanas you left on my floor.
Also this borrowed sweater you never asked for before I asked you for a break.
These are found objects and sometimes I look to them to remember you in my bedsheets.
I have trouble writing my own bio. The one for my #advertising portfolio website that mabye two recruiters a year will read, that is. Is anyone good at it? Condensing years of existence into a few lines? Why does it feel easy then ridiculous and excruciating? What begins innocent turns on itself. I sit down at my…