wine glasses, sand freckles, chipping paint of fire escapes,
i exhale everything but like a
pillow pressed to mouth, instinctively inhale them all back.
it was never an abundance of badness but rather a
of memory, 1600 boxes stacked high, i walk among them, nod
at the labels, "April 2014", "September 2013", make an inventory,
what we keep and what we leave
when we leave.
brace myself for the goodbyes but like a
pillow pressed to mouth, this breathlessness
i make room in the attic