I’m packing my camera, my paperbacks, and my notebook. I’m stowing away my love letters, my polaroids, and pens. This way, I won’t have to think, feel, read, or write about you. This way I’ll be certain you were imagined paradise. I doggy-eared you in the pages of my book so I know what part of the story to avoid. And maybe in time, I’ll pick it out up from my desk drawer and rewrite the passages I did not like. Until then, I’ll tab you as read and push you in the back of my bookcase.