Six months after, it was April,
and I still lived in my Ford
after moving out of your house.
I drove to Oregon, found a waterfall
to pose in front of, my familiar wool
and cerulean jacket, a white t-shirt,
my scruffy beard.
The sun glints off my face.
I wonder what you’re up to
and who takes photographs
of you– is it a stranger?
Am I a stranger now?