I keep your sweater in the bottom drawer,
wrapped in tissue paper like it matters.
Some days I take it out just to remember
how it felt to be loved by you.
I smile when your mom calls to check on me,
pretend I'm doing fine, better than ever.
I don't tell her how I still set two plates
at dinner sometimes, out of habit.
You'd hate to know I'm holding on like this,
keeping pieces of you tucked away in corners.
But I'd rather carry this weight alone
than have you feel guilty for moving on.
So I'll keep lying to your family,
keep hiding your photos in desk drawers,
keep pretending I've forgotten the sound
of your keys in the front door lock.
Even if it breaks me piece by piece,
I'll make sure you never have to know
how much of me is still waiting
in the spaces where you used to be.