Leaving Things Behind

I wrapped the plates in newspaper

found a receipt tucked between two bowls.

2019. The place is gone now—

someone else's restaurant, someone else's corner table.

The thumbprint in the coffee stain

could be mine. Could be someone else's.

I don't unwrap the plates to check.

There are boxes in every room.

The apartment echoes different now,

smaller or larger, I can't tell which.

My voice sounds like someone else's voice.

I keep finding things I'd forgotten:

a lighter that doesn't work,

a pen with someone else's name on it,

a greeting card I never sent.

Each object demands a decision:

keep it or let it go.

I stand in the kitchen holding

a mug I don't remember owning

and think about all the choices

I didn't know I was making

every time I decided to stay.

Now I'm deciding to leave.

The mug goes in the box.

The receipt stays on the counter.

I'm not ready to wrap that one up yet.