The notebook I gave you at the beginning of us, filled with words you call poetry. The mug with the coffee tidemarks I tried to bleach once. The bathrobe you stole from an ex. The secret condoms in your jacket pocket. The awards you say mean nothing, in their silver frames. And the guitar you would strum, telling me I was the only one. You’ll pick up these pieces of you tomorrow. But who’s going to pick up the pieces of me? I trample the guitar with the heels you loved. Then I dump it. All those pieces of you.
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