I’m standing here staring
    at two blankets—
    tiny when bought,

    now expanding to roughly the size of the Atlanta metro area.

Somehow, this surfboard
    I bought for indoors
    is mocking me,
    refusing to fit in its box,

    while pull up bars roll their eyes at my lack of strategy.

I swear my suitcase shrunk—
    or my belongings grew,
    feeding off:

    laughs,
    memories,
    late nights,

    and kisses I planned on taking home unused.

I’ll have to buy a duffel,
    maybe two,
    possibly rent a truck,
    charter a flight,

    or just surrender and stay here permanently,
    buried beneath my —— questionable purchases.

This packing—
    it’s chaos,
    it's impossible,
    it's perfect—

    a suitcase bursting with more than stuff,
    filled to the brim with all the evidence…

    that leaving was never _really_ the plan.

And it's not the blankets, (now the size of Texas)
            the surfboard, (still refusing to fit)
     or even the suitcase— (de—finitely shrinking)

It's just…
       Me—

    realizing I've unpacked more here than I ever expected to.