Nowadays
I’m so good at turning pages
or staring at my glass heroin
instead
of continuing from page 89,
doggy eared last summer
Lately
I don’t recognize any numbers
except my birthdate and my deadline
so I’m sorry if I say
“Who is this?”
or
“One day I was in a state and I deleted your number because I thought you were disposable because we haven’t talked in three weeks so that pretty much makes you an acquaintance…or something like that”
but now
when you text or call
I have to ignore this unknown number,
so that voicemail can identify you
and these numbing seconds of sadness and fear and regret
torture me
because maybe you were more important
than Monday, the 15th thought
or
Saturday, the 2nd of this year decided
I’m so, so good
at
getting rid of things
things that had meaning
things that made space in my room
things to be sold at half price
(now my room is a lovely shade of blue with no pictures on the wall)
(a mattress with no sheets and a bookshelf with no books)
(a freshly vacuumed memory)
I’m so good at deleting you
and by deleting you, deleting me
Control, Alt, Delete is just so easy to do, you see
Why
my yearbooks have autographs with no faces
and my grades have letters with no teachers
and my friends have these names that keep fading
I don’t know
I can’t remember.