Leaving me was nothing more than opening
the door and stepping into fresh air
A hinge yawning
something small
I didn’t run after you-
I kept rearranging the dust
into your initials
as if the house
might mistake me for you
The walls hum at night
They say your name
like it’s a fruit
they can’t swallow
I still keep your cup on the table
It holds nothing
but the outline of your mouth
Sometimes I drink that instead of water
You once said I look like someone
who breaks things softly
Maybe that’s why you left
Now everything I touch dries slower
I stir the same cup for hours,
just to hear the spoon complain
If we ever meet again,
I’ll wear your favorite earrings
the ones that hurt a little
just to prove I still know how
I’ll ask about the weather
You’ll say it’s colder now
We’ll both mean something else entirely.
I used to think love was a kiln
that you were the fire
and I was meant to harden
But you were the clay, too
Now everything becomes a stand-in for you
a cracked bowl we made by hand
a word left half-shaped
my fingerprints fossilized
in what’s drying
I can’t tell if I’m making art or evidence
if this ache is craft or confession
Every poem feels like I’m reattaching a handle
every silence
glazing what refuses to hold
These are the things I confuse with poetry-
and with pottery
and you