i'm beginning to forget the names of things. old boyfriends. old english. the street where we lived when we were in love once, a million miles from here. i don't miss their faces. old haunts. the burning smell of regret at the thought of the touch of a tie. or a plastic hanger. or the old thrift-store alarm-clock tiles tick. tick. tick. your memories are the weight of my palm on a new day when it is below zero and the air is too cold to breathe and the world resolves itself into moments when i am alive and a love and leaving you. these are the dog cold days of dying youth when my brain cells swell. and all that is left is nothing of you. no last dregs in the bottom of wine glasses or beer steins or the soles of shoes. i've given you away in handfuls and tea cups and fist-fulls of tantrums. i am so glad for you. leaving. this garland of names.