Muscle Memory

You’re standing by the speaker where the bass is far too loud.

I’m watching from the kitchen, just a shadow in the crowd.

The plastic cup is sweating through a ring onto the wood,

and you are doing everything I always knew you would.

You reached out with a finger, just to flick a piece of lint

off the shoulder of a jacket that has never known your scent.

It’s a habit, small and heavy, like a prayer you used to say,

except you’re pointing all that mercy in a brand new way.