Who are “you” anyways?

I have everything I ever wanted,

a house and a blue couch and two cats that sit in the windowsill.

i never think of you,

although saying that makes it seem like I do.

I don’t write anymore and I don’t cry either;

Most of my books were left at home,

my car was totaled in the intersection.

Is there anything left of my old life?

I don’t look for it, don’t hope to find it-

there is hope in unfamiliarity