Do we speak to who we were before or are we collected silhouettes?                                           We return to old benches to visit our neglected silhouettes.

Trace my outline in chalk on the road by my house in orange.                                                          I want to remember that I thought citrus peels were rejected silhouettes.

I’ll face the strands of hair from a girl who used to make pancakes                                            and cut herself in rows of square brownies like corrected silhouettes.

We lost that skin and grew different hair but we still know the bench.                                           We taste onion tears when we meet chocolate chips’ suspected silhouettes.

The stars under my finger nails will never fall like shredded newspaper.                                     How many of us have there been? A wax gallery of projected silhouettes.

He’ll call me Sarah with Hershey-kiss hair or that blueberry crew cut.                                         I’ll look up and wonder who he talks to of all my reflected silhouettes.