Dragging the Half-Zipped Suitcase

The zipper sticks—right there

on the curb’s chipped crack.

I tug, it catches, hesitates,

like the weight inside is heavier than the day.

Sidewalk stones jagged, biting leather

and scuffed corners that tell of a dozen

half-poured talks and missed goodbyes.

I want to zip it closed, move on, but it fights back,

refusing to seal the months folded inside

where voices flutter loose, unfinished.

The strap slips once, twice, and I wonder if this

is just me carrying more than clothes,

or the ghost of every silence I never packed away.