The door just about closes. But only if I lean in, hard, and push with my shoulder.
Your closet remains overstuffed with things you played with, things you once wore.
Of course, nothing fits anymore. Not even the big, blue, baggy sweater you bought when you wanted to hide your body.
It still smells of you. A heady, unexpected mix of mom’s expensive perfume and your favorite cinnamon flavored bubblegum.
I suppose that it’s really time to move on. I know that you’re not coming back for any of it. You’ve even given me permission to throw it all away.
Sometimes, though, memories need more than just brain cells and neurons to keep them alive – hope does too. I think you’ll understand that.
Soon enough anyway
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