Moonlit Inventory

At midnight the apartment is honest.

No emails, no sunlight,

no makeup version of me

trying to look okay.

﹁﹂

I sit on the floor with a notebook

and the moon makes a pale rectangle

across my knees,

like a quiet stage.

﹁﹂

I start listing things I lost:

the future I rehearsed,

the inside jokes,

The way your hoodie smelled like soap

and somebody else’s confidence.

﹁﹂

I lost time, too

months that slipped by

while I waited for change

like it was a train

I could hear but never see.

﹁﹂

Then, without meaning to,

I list what I learned:

My gut is not “dramatic,”

Silence can be a weapon,

Love should not require

constant translation.

﹁﹂

I learned I can leave.

I learned I can stay gone.

I learned my friends

weren’t tired of me

I was tired of asking

to be held gently.

﹁﹂

The list gets messy.

I cross things out.

I add them back.

It’s not math.

It’s grief doing inventory

by moonlight,

trying to make sense

of what remains.

﹁﹂

When I close the notebook,

the room is still the room,

but my chest feels lighter,

Like the truth finally has a place

to sit.