This is the last picture I ever took of you. Right before we stopped being artists living in New York and started being something else.
“I look weird,” you tell me.
“Weird, how?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” you say “I just don’t look like me.”
“Maybe its not you,” I tease. And then we laugh. Even though we both know its true. In our haste, we left almost everything.
Somewhere in Brooklyn, the old you sits on the side of the road. Along with our couch, a hand-me-down lamp, and a box of old magazines you use to tear through for reference. I know, because the old me sits there too. Our shapes cast shadows on the pavement.