Potholes In Pittsburgh - water the things

We need to make sure we are looking out for #1.... Ourselves. I found an old hoodie in the back of the closet. It still smelled like detergent they stopped making years ago. Funny how memories never fade evenly— Some disappear overnight, Others wait inside cotton sleeves. The sleeves don't fit anymore. Neither do the conversations I rehearse in empty kitchens. I still know every creak in this apartment, But I don't remember when it started sounding unfamiliar. The houseplant by the window finally gave up last week. Neither of us noticed until the leaves turned the color of old notebooks. I think that's how most things end. Not with slammed doors. Just quiet neglect. Just saying, "I'll do it tomorrow," Until tomorrow learns your name. If healing is supposed to be obvious, Why does it feel so much like forgetting? I'm scared that one day I'll wake up And your laugh won't sound right in my head anymore. Not because I moved on— Because memory gets tired too. And somehow That hurts even more. The grocery store cashier asked how my day was. I almost answered honestly. Instead I said, "Pretty good." Like everyone else. It's amazing how many people Can carry entire storms Without getting the floor wet. Maybe growing older Is collecting versions of yourself You never get to be again. The kid who thought twenty-five was ancient. The teenager who swore they'd leave this town forever. The person who believed Everything broken Could be fixed If you wanted it badly enough. I miss all of them. Even the ones that were wrong. The houseplant is gone now. There's only a faded circle Where the pot used to sit. I keep thinking I should put something there. Not because the room needs it— Because I do. Maybe that's all we're really trying to become. Someone who remembers To water the things That can't ask for it. Including ourselves.