It Was 1979 and He Fell Asleep in the Middle of Our Fight

I have left out all these words for you. 
Santa cookies. 
Math test needing a signature. 
I put them out of my mouth; footprints through each room. 
It takes days for you to find me. 
I hold my breath when I hear you pass in case you find me too soon. 
Before I’m ready to share small things like pebbles or commas 
or if we once shared a funny moment surrounded by other people - 
I’m not ready to remember that with you.
I have put you down on my list of things I must do. 
People I should love more whose last attempt at me 
was loose floor boards and mixed messages.
I can fit this list in the palm of my hand.
Dust. Ashes. Small glass beads.
Someone asked me once what love feels like when it leaves.
It feels like this.