The Bag That Never Left

The suitcase in the basement waits,

packed fifteen years before,

inside are all the travel dates,

a ticket to somewhere.

The latch still sticks, the fabric worn,

the smell of mothballs deep.

A confirmation, long since torn,

shows a room I'll never keep.

The clothes are small, they fold just right,

the way I packed them in.

I could unpack them to the light,

could start the trip again.

But something in me wants it sealed,

wants it to stay and wait.

Wants the suitcase unrevealed,

wants to seal my fate.

So back it goes into the dark,

behind the winter things.

A bag that bears the only mark

of the life I never bring.