green and blue stripes in a heap on the bottom shelf, spotted by chance. i slipped the knitted fabric over my shoulders and stared in the mirror at what i'd become; the shell of a shell of someone that might've existed. a costume, a feeling, a memory. i bought a sweater that looks like yours and wearing it feels like i'm in your skin, like your eyes are mine, staring over ridges of elbows and knees and crossed ankles hugged tight to my chest.

how long's it been, a year and a half? losing you feels like losing minutes from days. i've been taking pictures of all the places i still remember: the red table, the concrete ledge, the pothole by the curb. they're nothing now. empty space. ground where feet stood. they're all i have left.

i search for your accounts sometimes. not to look, just to know you're still there. that it wasn't all a dream. i dream too much. i dream about forgiveness. i dream about a faceless you that sees me.