The Unheld Hand

Saw him across the street, a familiar slouch,

his shoulders still carrying the same old pouch

of worries I once tried to lighten, to mend.

But today, I felt nothing. No need to extend

my hand, no urge to cross the yellow line.

Just a quiet acknowledgment of his design,

of his own path, unalterable by mine.

A small internal shrug, a release

like a knot untying, a kind of peace.

He walked on, oblivious, and I stayed put.

The urge to fix, a phantom limb, now cut.