What I Was Preparing For

In the pocket of a jacket I hadn't worn

in over a year — a disposable razor,

orange cap still snapped on, the blade unborn

to anything. A little dusty. A tracer

of some version of myself with plans.

I held it under the bathroom light

and tried to find the trip, turning it in my hands.

I couldn't build it — not the hotel, not the night

I'd packed it into the bag, not the reason

I'd thought that far ahead. The pocket

had lint from a full year of hanging. A season

or more. I turned the razor. Couldn't clock it

back to any morning I remembered.

The blade untouched. The cap intact.

Whoever I was that December

or whenever — they had plans. They packed.

They didn't leave a note.