Fragments · Poetry
one unwashed coffee mug.
three voicemails I cannot delete.
a handwriting I keep trying to replicate.
the specific way you laughed at your own jokes, before the punchline, already delighted by yourself.
your reading glasses on the nightstand.
the indent in the couch cushion.
a grocery list in your handwriting: milk, bread, the good coffee, something for the weekend.
the something for the weekend that never came.
your name still exists in my phone,
i have not been able to delete it.
sometimes I scroll to it and just look.
the smell of your coat.
i wore it once, in october, when i was cold and it was the closest thing.
i have not washed it.
your unfinished book, face-down on the table.
page 247.
i know how it ends.
i have not told you.
the dreams where you are alive and i know you are dead and i do not say anything because i want to keep you there as long as possible.
the inventory of a grief is not the large things.
it is not the absence at the funeral, the empty seat at Christmas.
those are expected. those have names.
the inventory of a grief is the small things.
the coffee mug.
the voicemails.
the coat.
the specific way you laughed at your own jokes.