In the museum of lost things, I trace
the outline of your departure. Here,
a glass case houses the echo of your laugh,
preserved in amber and forgetfulness.

There's an art to curating emptiness—
each void carefully labeled, catalogued
by the weight of its silence. I've become
an expert in the taxonomy of gone.

In the gift shop, I purchase a postcard
of the space you used to occupy. It's blank,
of course. I write Dear ______ on the back,
but can't remember how to spell your name.

The docent leads a tour through the wing
of almosts and not-quites. We pause
before an exhibit of near-misses,
their almost-touches frozen in time.

I donate my collection of your maybes
to the archive. They file it away
under "Potential Energy, Unrealized"—
a whole universe of what-ifs, gathering dust.

At night, the museum comes alive
with the rustling of phantom limbs.
Amputated futures stretch and yawn,
staging a rebellion against absence.

I volunteer as night watchman,
guardian of all we've misplaced.
In the dark, I polish the display cases
of regret until they shine like new moons.

Sometimes, I swear I can hear you
whispering from inside the walls.
But it's just the building settling,
adjusting to the weight of what's not there.

In the morning, I'll open the doors
to another day of careful preservation.
Visitors will come to gawk at the relics
of lives unlived, loves unkindled.

And I'll be here, cartographer
of the negative space you left behind,
mapping the contours of your non-existence
with the precision of a heart that won't forget. 

Ari is a writer born and raised in Memphis, Tennessee. Their work can be found in Eunoia Review, Gigantic Sequins, and Blue Marble Review, among others. They have been recognized by the National YoungArts Foundation, the National Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, and more. In their free time, they enjoy playing pickleball and badminton.