Went through the clothes draped
over the chair, you know,
the in-between,
the ones you’re not sure
if you should wear
one more time –
the not worthy
to be hung as clean, the not dirty
enough to be tossed
in the laundry.

Went through the letters saved
in the box, you know,
the bittersweet,
the ones you’re not sure
if you should save
to poke again at that not-yet-
healed memory, the not so foolish
as to make you hang your head,
but sharp enough to squeeze your heart.

Went through the conversations bottled
in my mind, the ones where you said
this and I said
something reasonable, I must have
you know, I’m not sure
why it still hangs
in the air between us, a clean
break not permitted
and I can still be tossed
to the ground by desperate sorrow.

(The first stanza of this poem was ‘found’: it is a note written by my friend Dove about some tidying she did. I found it irresistibly poignant and compelling to riff upon.)