This is your final bill

I am your 39 cent stamp.
I am the weather in a city you’ll never check,
a call you’ll never connect,
I am out-fashioned, a memory reject.

I am the face of your regret.
I am your shame, tossed photos.
The lie to face your friends

I am ghost limbs.
I am trips you’ll never retake.
Your many lost things
waiting
exactly where you’ve left them.

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