Gone

My phone forgets your number.
My blue sweater shrugs out
of the shape of your shoulders.

I avoid Fifth Street and the park
where we kissed that October, all
forearms and fall jackets.

The afternoon bus never stops
at your corner. The 7-Eleven
never has your brand of cigarettes.

At night, I walk by the river alone.
In the morning I only buy one
coffee, and I put sugar in it.