you’re folding shirts into a suitcase,
and i’m pretending it’s just laundry.
not goodbye.
not distance.
not everything shifting
in ways i can’t say out loud.
you used to leave your shoes by the door,
scattered like punctuation
in the rhythm of our house.
now they’re lined up—
neat, ready, leaving.
i still remember
how you used to swing your backpack
onto one shoulder,
how you’d shout for the sports radio in the car,
how we fought over stupid things
because we knew we could.
i thought we had more time.
i thought the mornings and arguments
would stretch forever.
but now
your room looks emptier,
and so does mine.
i’m proud of you—
i hope you know that.
but in the space between your door closing
and the sound of the car starting,
i wished, just once,
that you’d stay.
not forever.
just a little longer.
just long enough
to not feel like
we’re becoming
almost strangers.
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