in August

A Parking Garage Roof in August

Eva Salvatierra

who are you if not a ghostly fragment i carry zipped into a corner of my fraying wallet? i will forget about you until the coins fall out. i cannot light a candle without blackened matches soaking in the hot wax; these posters on my wall don’t remind me of this life anymore, i must clean out the pencils from beneath my bed with each hair-tie drenched in dust. can i remember who i was in that tanktop? i smell cat piss in my room but i cannot locate the source. you left something here and it has not dissipated - coldly, you shout, “warmest regards”. i write this as i drink mint tea, you taste like where i laugh the loudest but i am not there anymore so let my body be another thing that dissociates when she remembers. i stare at the collage i made in fourth grade, the one that won the award, with a green car and a yellow moon rolling across the short width of a rectangle. layers of teal and purple earth. i shiver at this space that is called my own, you blink, and knowing you will never respond, that there is no absolute truth i can find before 9 pm, i take my sleeping pills early

Graphic by Alexandra Ma