The letter you can't say

You left in the middle of the sentence. Not your fault. Endings don't wait for grammar.

What I keep: your coat on the hook, three months now. A song I skip because the first bar does something to my chest. Your last message, three words, ordinary, read enough times to wear the ink.

What I don't have: where the rest of you went.

A goodbye is a door you close with your own hand. You didn't leave me one. So I built it, and I'm standing in it, saying the thing into the room: thank you. For the years. For the mess. For letting me know you at all.

There. The door is closed. I'm keeping the key anyway.

I write letters for the things people can't say. First line free: [email protected]