You’ve left me stranded in the record
store, with thirty-year-old ballads
cycling through the speakers trying
to convince me that you don’t know
what you got till it’s gone.

There’s a film left on my fingers from
all the times we tore up heart-healthy
whole-grain stone-ground wheat bread
into bite-sized chunks to feed to herds
of mallard ducks.

I’ve spent more time sleeping shotgun
in your Chevy than in my own bed
and that’s a memory that will reside
in the curve of my spine for
the rest of my life.

What am I supposed to do with this
Ferris wheel and these bumper cars
and all of these corn dogs and funnel
cakes and bags of pink and blue
cotton candy?

You’ve left so many impromptu
excursion artifacts next to my
nightstand, under my loveseat,
in my medicine cabinet, my fridge,
my bed,

I’ve got no space for all of these
outdated road maps, quotes from
your favorite novella, Big Mac
wrappers, the smell of your shirt.
I’ve got no room for you.

This is a reprint of work originally published in Green Blotter.

Nicole Byrne suffers from a crippling addiction to poetry. She self-medicates with copious amounts of black coffee, avocados, hot sauce, and rock ‘n’ roll. The treatment does not appear to be working and she hopes it never does. As of August 2015, she has uprooted herself from Maine to move out to Kansas, where she is embarking on the quest of receiving her MFA at Wichita State University. Her work has previously been published in Words Dance, The Sandy River Review, and Sunset Liminal. Find her online at and on Twitter: @nicolebyrnepoet.

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