Things Left Where They Were

I still hear the kettle sigh in the kitchen,

the way it used to when we were too tired to speak.

You’d lean against the counter,

eyes still heavy from sleep,

and I’d pretend not to notice

how your fingers tapped the same rhythm

against the ceramic mug every morning.

The hallway keeps your scent

longer than I expected.

It lingers in that patch of sunlight

you used to stand in,

reading headlines out loud

like they were the day’s most urgent confession.

If love was meant to last,

we were almost there.

Close enough to taste it on the air between us,

close enough that I can still

feel the brush of your coat sleeve

when I’m reaching for something else.

I keep wondering

if you still picture me

the way I still picture you —

standing barefoot in the doorway,

half in shadow,

half in the light,

looking at me like you’d already decided

this was the moment you’d remember

when it was over.

And though I’ve stopped

setting the table for two,

I still leave your chair pushed in neatly.

Because some ruins

are better left untouched.