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THE SMALLEST THINGS BROKE ME OPEN
A handwriting on an old list.
A voicemail I can't delete.
A photograph taken
on a day neither of us thought
to remember.
A cup still in the cabinet.
A chair still angled
the way you always left it.
A habit the house still holds
without knowing why.
These are the things that undo me.
Quietly and completely.
In private moments
the world never gets to witness.
And l am glad for the privacy.
Some grief is too sacred to perform.
Too specific to explain.
Too deeply yours to share with anyone
who wasn't there.
