An odd assembly of empty promises sits perched on a shelf in my room. 

It all collects dust now;

I'm not even sure if she remembers why 

kraft mac and cheese makes me giggle. 

Or if he knows I kept his guitar pick, 

the one he wore around his neck 

just in case our duet came on the 

rusted, dusty speakers of the outlet mall. 

I wonder if he saved

the gum-wrapper heart I made with perfect edges or 

if it's decomposed in the bottom of his backpack. 

There are tear-stained love letters,

both hospital and festival wristbands I ripped off with my teeth. 

Dead and wilted corsages-

nobody told me baby’s breath lasts longer if you cut the stem

diagonally.

I wonder if she kept the sponges we used 

as ‘self-defense’ 

or if she only smiles when she cleans the kitchen 

because of the music- 

I smile because the grip I have on the 

green and yellow square

will always remind me of that day. 

I kept every shrapnel of my middle-school friendships-  

-self-destructive grenades

the polaroids of paranoid kids 

unaware of just how unpredictable

life can get. 

I still have the street sign we stole 

the last time I saw him,

and I will always wear his ring around my neck. 

I know breathing in dust can’t be good for me, 

but if I get cancer along with 

the coco butter smell of what bliss once felt like;

I’ll keep wearing her sweatshirt to bed. 

I hope he never finds out I fall asleep watching

my reflection bounce off the glasses

he left on my dashboard,

and his shampoo’s still under the sink;

just in case.