your smell on my skin is out of context.
i am not 17, or 18, or even 19.
my hair is not long, and i do not drive that car.
i do not go to that school.
i do not live in that house.
that town does not know me.
i am not complacent
or collected
or content
or calm.
i am not in love with you anymore.
so why can't i take off this shirt
and stuff it away in some box or scrapbook or secret space
like all the other simple memories
turned sepia with time...
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