I Am The Bobby Pins

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I am the bobby pins you find in corners of your room that seemed empty and clean yesterday.

I am the color of your walls we chose together. I am the gold paint for your ceiling we couldn’t afford.

I am the crumbs you find in your bed that was once our bed that I used as a table.

I am Governor’s Island where we had our first real date and our last good date.

I am Super Bad Brad that sings outside of Crif Dogs in Williamsburg on Thursday nights. I am Crif Dogs.

I am the furniture in your bedroom and the dishwasher we found at Ikea for $99.

I am the rug on your floor I stole from my last roommate.

I am that really nice face wash I gave you that you’re probably running out of about now.

I am that guy, Daryl, on the L Train that sings Maybe I’m Amazed.

I am the bottom shelf above your desk where I used to keep my nail polish.

I am ice cream and peach Snapple and Lactaid pills and whiskey and the French press.

I am the way I folded your shirts and paired up your socks.

I am the stamps we carved and printed on your door and the chevrons I painted on the front of it.

I am the heart shaped pans you bake your pot brownies in. I am pot brownies.

I am the reason your Netflix still recommends medical dramas and sad independent movies. I am Weeds.

I am the pasta maker, the ice cream maker, the mixing bowls, and the orange cutting board.

I am your moustache wax and the cup you keep your toothbrush in inside the medicine cabinet.

I am the sheets on your bed and the bathmat and the towels you still use.

I am all of the groceries and dates I paid for this time last year. And I am your first month’s rent on the apartment you still live in.

I am all those naked pictures of me you claim disappeared from your hard drive.

I am the blue umbrella.

I am Albert Camus. I am Jon Krakauer. I am F. Scott.

I am the reason you have a bed because “grown ups don’t sleep on a mattress on the floor.”

I am the name of your imaginary brewery.

I am Trader Joe’s.

I am your skateboard.

I am the northside of Williamsburg (but only the parts above North 7^th).

I am all my clothes in your closet that you’ve been saying you’ll “mail tomorrow” for weeks now.

I am Terra Blues. I am Bleeker Street.

I am the puppy store by the bank.

I am Peru. I am our trip to Peru we would be on today. I am the money you haven’t gotten back yet for canceling our trip to Peru.

I am the fourth of July. I am air conditioning. I am the next apartment you’ll live in that actually has a window.

I am coconut oil.

I am just someone your next girlfriend will be better than.

I am the bobby pins.

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