He says he misses me
and I'm supposed to interpret it to be some sort of
life-shattering epiphany - that he
could miss me.

This girl with fake hair,
fake nails, fake laugh,
real breasts, real feelings,
real fears and real dreams.

He misses my shadow.

He misses my attitude
the hair, everchanging
shades of a rainbow through follicles -
he thinks he misses me.

I stand in line until they call out my number
and I drink in his words - dirty Shiraz.
I think to myself that,
I miss myself far more.