The Soft Spot

I told him for weeks the wood felt wrong,

like stepping on a sponge or a secret.

He finally knelt by the radiator,

peeling back the rug’s stained corner.

He didn't roll his eyes or tell me I was imagining

the smell of wet earth in the living room.

He reached down and the grain just gave up.

He held the splinter out to me—

a jagged, black-veined tooth of pine.

It was wet. It was real.

The air in my chest finally had somewhere to go.