I don’t have pockets. The things I carry I hold in my hands, my left hand, because my right has to open doors and things. Reminder: You should never carry more than you can carry, not that this is advice I live by. If I flipped my left palm over and uncurled my fingers (which I wouldn’t do for just anybody) you’d see a patch of fur, except it’s not fur it’s my ex boyfriend’s facial hair. God, he was a pig with an excellent mustache. I don’t know what I’m doing, carrying it like this, as if I think I deserve a part of him still (I don’t. Love doesn’t make you deserving of even a teacup). I hold his mustache, hold his mustache, I hear songs through my headphones and think that was our winter, our summer, our spring. Then I drown the phone in the dog’s water bowl…Describe the thing you’ve been carrying in your pocket since last September? I carry nothing. I’ve spent the last eight months trying to fashion a pocket from strips of fabric that will not attach.