If You Leave, Take Me Too

If you go—
go gently.
Go slowly.
Let me look at you
the whole way down.
Let me memorize the sound
your footsteps make
leaving.

But if you go—
take me too.

Take the breath you gave back to me.
The one I thought I’d lost for good.
Take the mornings we rewrote
after so many broken ones,
the ones you softened
just by being in them.

Take the spaces
you filled with laughter
and forgiveness,
the ache you quieted
with the steadiness
of your hand in mine.

Take the story
we weren’t finished writing.
Take the sigh I haven’t let out yet.
The last I love you,
still forming.

I know I’ve lived before you—
but I don’t want to live
after.

I don’t want to wake up
to the ghost of your coffee cup,
to the absence of your keys in the dish,
to the hollow of a room
that still holds your shape.

If you go,
let me come with you.
Even if it’s just
to the edge.

Even if it’s just
as far as I can.

Even if it means
leaving myself behind.