Familiar strangers

I watch hands fold laundry, slow and precise,

fingers tracing a stain like a secret,

a silent confession pressed into fabric.

The rough line of an old scar

catches light like a thin wound,

a memory written beneath skin.

These hands move with quiet rhythms,

flicking dust from worn sleeves,

thumbing through crumpled notes,

staining paper with ink

that smears like forgotten stories.

They belong to someone I pass by,

but the hands tell a story

I’m not sure I want to know,

a whisper of lives folded into daily breath.