What I actually find when looking for something in my apartment…

Dusty pennies and single white socks under the purple futon bed.

Blue-eyed earrings in the breast pocket of a leather jacket ( property of a lost friend, I thought I was telling the truth when I told her I returned them).

Sad, sad, sad sneakers peeping from beneath my beaurou.

White envelopes, silver thumbtacks, gold frame hooks.

Four clanging spoons at the bottom of a bookbag, I am 100% certain that they dished me tepid oatmeal from warped yogurt containers in the middle of an average afternoon.

That one guy’s phone number. What was his name? Didn’t he write a book?

8 soy sauce, 6 ketchup, and 3 splenda packets.

A little pin that reads “I am a feminist” in pink lettering. I bought it at the hipster xmas craft faire, put it in another breast pocket, and promptly forgot about it.

More than one pair of ugly sunglasses. They look terrible on me, and always have.

A feather. A sugarbird feather.

No sign of that new book of ‘Crops of the Americas’ postage stamps.