My momma always said "it's not how big the suitcase is, it's how much you're willing to carry", and I carried your bag, with its patches knowing inside was your ***** laundry, that you slowly aired over time.
Even your broken bits, and holed jeans became sacred to me- the smell of you left after on my skin, but, you never let me unpack the whole bag, always kept a side compartment up your sleeve.
And my arm slowly became numb, when I realized that I still held mine, even though the clasp was broken- bits of me strewn about, laid bare for you to see
Though you did help foldΒ Β nicely, you handed my pieces promptly back to me- I wonder if some fibers stuck, some little bits of me, like your neighbors dog's hair on your shirt
does my smell come back to you in a rush, the feeling of our fingers brushing as I handed back your bag? We are parting at the fork, both taking our separate things, but are you giving up, or is this a temporary farewell,
before you fly through my door, throw off your shoes, set down your things, and proclaim "sweetheart, have my bag, I'm here to stay!"