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I wanted you to know that
yesterday I broke the rainbow glass you gave me
and their shards littered the kitchen tile.
I cried as they glittered in the afternoon sun
and pierced my fingers picking them one by one.

I started wearing makeup again, as if I could hide
emotions under a plaster cake, oily gold
I still daydream at the office and take long walks
but now it’s always dark when I go home.

The wind cuts my face when I roll the window down
and sometimes I go on random drives far away
eventually, the houses start to look uniform
and I wonder if you might have thought the same.

I imagine you singing whispery and off-tune,
gloved hands on the wheel and warm air on blast
your passenger seat littered with old papers
or the faceless stranger you said you met last.

My dog still yaps like something’s missing
like there’s a gap by the door when I come home
or around my shoulder or between my arms,
asking for attention no one can give
but somehow content with enough.

I want you to know that
I threw away the broken glass you gave me,
and my phone fizzled and died
that I finally heaved away cardboard boxes
and watched the movie that made you cry

I learned to stop checking my email
every second that a notification appears
but my mailbox is always empty
so sometimes I forget that it’s there.

This poem is included in The Sophomore Year Experience poetry compilation.

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About Amy

Amy is a freelance writer and artist based in LA. Her hobbies include romanticizing her world, having too many moody thoughts, and wandering through neighborhoods she's never been in.
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