the last time we spoke
as friends
was on a february
drive,
frustrated ski slope
dreams
and coffee stops
lingering between
all the things
we held back
and then
could never
say

an empty office-
you whisked
away
all the pieces
of yourself
while we were gone;
left your name
behind,
etched in the
doorway,
for us
to whisper and
ask why

now,
all that remains
is the fiction
i weave into the
empty
margins of
our lives,
the stories i
tell myself
about where
you go and
who you are
after we stopped
moving through
this timeline
together