I place my fingers against the plain white walls and try to feel the heartbeat underneath.
I weigh the indoor air in both hands, trying to tell
if it feels lighter somehow.
What does one life weigh–
more than the few boxes in the back of my car, but
how much more?
The house doesn’t feel all that different without me, but then again,
you’re always more nostalgic than I,
through your life,
boxes heavy with history and ticket stubs.
I wonder sometimes if maybe I’m not nostalgic enough,
like maybe I’ve let myself become too light,
like maybe I don’t demand enough
space in this world.
But I’m too unstable to stand on my own two feet and
hold much more in my arms. And
it feels unfair to place the burden on these houses that remain
strangers when I look back through the window and whisper goodbye.