I’m a book you opened,
read aloud and laughed at,
then slammed shut against the countertop—
spine cracked,
pages splayed like accusations.

You left the bed unmade,
sheets untucked,
socks unmatched,
clothes shoved half‑unpacked into the chest—
evidence I can’t fold away.

I reach—
trying to drag you out
from inside me.  

You walk around wearing my smile
like a jacket you borrowed
and forgot to return—  
while I am still here, unfolding.