Inventory

I keep a careful list

of what I have lost.

Not names—-

those unravel too quickly.

Not dates—

they insist on being remembered.

Just the ordinary evidence

of having loved someone.

The way the light used to fall

across the kitchen floor at four.

The weight of your coat

still hanging by the door.

The quiet that settled

after your footsteps stopped.

I should have answered.

I do not write that down.

Instead, I record what feels contained—

the chipped rim of your mug,

indentation in the couch

where you leaned too long.

Grief prefers symmetry.

It wants a beginning and an end.

It wants a reason.

But the house keeps breathing

without asking permission.

Even now,

when the air is still

and nothing moves,

something shifts.

I keep the list anyway.