The Empty Street
She is long gone,
and never leaves.
Some nights the room still holds her shape.
She took the love because it was easy to take.
She left the trouble because it was easy to leave.
That was the whole arithmetic of us.
And what do you keep?
Not the lies. Not the door.
A handful of snapshots, edges gone soft:
her head on your shoulder,
the one winter she was warm.
Memory is a kind liar.
It keeps only what you loved.
So here is the street she left you on,
and here is you, still on it,
pouring what’s left of your heart into the gutter,
and calling that devotion.
Your love only knows how to forgive.
It never learned to walk away.
You say you can’t let go.
The truth is you won’t,
because letting go means admitting,
that the thing you built,
was built by one of you.