The Weight of Small Things

The kid slipped the candy bar in,

pressed it against his jacket like a secret—

a heartbeat caught

between cashier's gaze and a sudden breath held too long.

I saw myself in his wide eyes,

frozen and reckless,

a ghost of fifteen years ago shaking in the same aisle.

I once stashed a crumpled chocolate bar

down the lining of a backpack,

half-melted and sticky,

left it behind years later

as if that old shame could be tossed away

like a forgotten wrapper.

That weight—small as sugar dust—

stays in pockets, folds into silence,

clings to skin long after the act.