Half-Packed

Her shoe stands in the suitcase like a question—

one shoe, waiting for the other.

The lid gapes open on her bed,

half of her already gone.

I know this is how it happens:

not in speeches or goodbyes

but in the careful folding of jeans,

the zipping shut of a life you've been

living in the same hallway as mine.

The shoe won't tip over.

It just stands there, upright,

like it knows something about staying put

that the rest of her has forgotten.

Next week I'll walk past the empty room

and the dust will hold the shape

of where her bed was. The floor will remember

before I do. The shoe will be gone,

and I'll be alone in a way

that tastes like old milk.