No vacancy

I don't have room for this hole you think you left me.

I have every moment I spent at my grandmas law school desk on summer vacations.

I have the echoes of rain on tiny apartment windows.

I am filled with the lyrics to every song I heard in my little Hyundai Excel running streets I wasn't supposed to be on.

I can remember the jab of my mothers chin in my collar that one time she hugged me so tight I thought she squeezed a little love into me.

This hole you imagine won't fit between the scent of rain when I left my best friend to move across the country and the sound of the first breath I heard my oldest child take.

There are spaces filled with the bad hair days of high school and those of the poor judgement days that followed for miles.

There are vast areas filled with first words and wobbly steps and long naps on my breast.

There is no room for that hole.

Of course, there are boxes in closets in rooms in me that are overflowing with real sorrow.

I watched my first soul take her last breath in a hospital room as I held her toes.  I can still hold the shape of his hand as the first little boy I truly loved struggled to come back to life.  I have been abandoned by too many people to remember their taste, yet I can recall the weight of the air that drowned me as their doors closed.  

I have made room for the struggles each of those things recall for me.

But you and the insignificant tear you made in my fabric?  Won't even leave a scar.  Not because I didn't care while you were pulling me in at three am, but because the one word message you left proved it wasn't real.  

Only the truth can leave holes inside.  And you, sweet boy, are a lie drawn in sand.

I do not have room for the hole you imagine leaving behind.  I am too filled with significance to notice your trail.