Half finished cigarettes
in my pockets and windowsills
stepping on candy wrappers
from expired birthday parties
and closed down emporiums
white hairs on my black tights
straight out of the washing machine
and stains from coffee or tea
or makeup or watercolors
washed down from my tears
fit my old life in a trash bag
or in tattered, puked on sheets
to become some sort of fantasy
to a younger version of me
