Danielle Pringle

Dear boy,

I can’t remember
how my name sounds from your mouth, or
the way your jaw feels when you forget to shave,
but I do recall

your room.
The thin duvet, the yellow curtains,
the succulents crusted in the first phase
of death on your windowsill.

I bought them all, but maybe
it grew too full of me, buried you.
I even bought your sheets,
and now, I imagine,

there’s someone else
changing them for you. This is what I thought
when I saw you the other day and
I didn’t know how to be a stranger.

Formerly yours,
Girl