carotid

The blanket stills smells like you, like dying angels and upturned coffee cups. I made crisp lines of delineation when I folded it and placed it in the bottom of the closet. The blanket was a source of your refusal, you needed it in nights when I needed something more than plagiarism. And now the apartment sits without adjectives; it smiles over and upon a great lack of things and more so; being a part of something. I have my memories of quilts and stained sheets. My memories of sleeping in the back of that pick-up, then fighting your father. I even remember when you said you'd take care of me and we both laughed as Leonard Cohen played in the backgound. I remember there was a me before you, but he is awfully cloudy and quiet.