It was a patchwork evening, the smog of the day
blanketed the sky, foggy orange lights lit up
the sidewalk where we stopped. You taking cash
out of your wallet so I could get a ride home.
Me fiddling with my handbag despite knowing I
was out. You handed me a note that no one would
have change for with a look of forgiveness for
being so prepared. I know how to miss you
I wanted to say,  I know how vacant it will feel.
But I didn’t. Because when I run out of loose change,
to pay the cashier at the stationery store where
I went to buy four separate pens each of a specific
colour to scribble in my journal each night
reminders/happy notes/money spent/poetry
I think of how your memory is enmeshed in me
how I am adept at forgetting, how they must have
coined the word void. All my days and notes will
now be smeared with blue. They might as well.

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