material

to reclaim and to erase, respectively, the space and the impression, despite your initial displacement having passed, i removed pictures, ones where we’re holding and looking and claiming; wiped window notes so not to remind that you fuck neck deep and disappoint people; quit the weed; issued a cease and desist on the strange heptagon forming corners, extending from my friendships to your new lover; donated the brown recliner with the glossy pile; bought a chair with floral print, which doesn’t recline (that’s ok, i don’t relax); changed every bulb to a daylight bulb; switched the meds from seroquel to abilify; smoked the weed; curbed the couch and the bookshelf; built a new bookshelf, by which i mean i stacked cinder blocks and 2x8x10 lumber against the south facing wall of my apartment, then stacked books of history and philosophy and classic literature and novels and poetry and graphic novels and cacti and records and a player on that stack of whitewood and concrete; moved everything but that bookshelf twice; smoked the weed again; added a spider plant and blood leaf to the collection; brought my desk into the living room; decentralized then sold the television; purged the contents of my room and closet; found all the old shoes, tuning forks, irrelevant mail and bank documents, ill-fit clothes, and less than precious metals i hid from myself and donated these curiosities i never or no longer used; smoked the weed some more; moved the desk back to my room; bought two pairs of blue jeans to add to the few other shirts and sweaters i call my own, as well as the ones borrowed from my roommate who tends to borrow things herself, ensuring no one really knows what belongs to whom anymore; gave away the bed; made plans to move entirely, but the space and the present remain yours.