Ashes, Gathered

The last box was lighter than I expected.

Mostly air,

and that dry-paper smell

of things that used to matter every day.

﹁﹂

I found the postcard you never sent,

blank on the back,

just a photo of a beach

We never visited together.

I held it like evidence

and then, weirdly, like a joke.

﹁﹂

Some endings burn clean.

Mine didn’t.

It smoked for weeks

late-night rereads,

half-apologies in my notes app,

the urge to knock on a closed door

just to hear it stay closed.

﹁﹂

When it finally went quiet,

There was ash everywhere.

Not literal ash,

but the soft gray residue

of “almost” and “maybe”

and “if we’d tried harder.”

﹁﹂

I thought I’d sweep it all out.

Instead, I gathered it

the way you cup your hands

around something delicate

You don’t fully understand.

﹁﹂

A few memories still glitter

when the light hits.

A laugh. A song.

The way my name sounded

before it got tired.

﹁﹂

Even endings leave something.

Not enough to rebuild the fire,

but enough to hold,

and whisper,

I was here.