What Leaves First

I knew you by the back of your neck,

the specific tilt of your head—

I could have called out, could have checked

if you still remembered me instead.

The hairline I used to trace,

the backpack strap cutting across

your shoulder blade in that place

where I thought we weren't lost.

By the time I understood

what I was seeing,

you were walking toward the gate.

I didn't call out.

What would I have said?

That some part of me

still knows the exact shape

of you turned away?

That I could find you

in any crowd

just by the way you stand?

The gate swallowed you.

I stood there

with the weight of the moment

I didn't take,

the voice I kept locked inside,

the distance I let grow

between us.

What leaves first

is always the thing

you didn't say.