What You Let Slide

She tried the bathroom door.

The knob spun in her hand

and caught nothing at all.

She turned it again

and still nothing would fall—

no click, no catch,

just the metal spinning

loose and loose and loose.

She laughed—

that bright, surprised sound

that means she's taking the measure of me,

that means she's seeing

how I actually live.

I stood in the hallway

watching her palm

rotate the broken knob,

watching her understand

that nothing here is fixed,

that I let the looseness accumulate,

that I'm the kind of person

who doesn't tighten what's loose,

who accepts the wobble

and moves on.

She looked back.

Still smiling.

But the smile had changed—

had learned something

it can't unknow.

The knob is still loose.

I still haven't fixed it.

And now every time

she reaches for that door,

I know

what her hand

will find.