He asked about that weekend

He asked about that weekend,

the one with the rain.

Just a simple question,

no reason for this strain.

But the words came out wrong,

a smooth, quick answer.

Like a practiced stage line,

shutting down the answer.

And my hand flew up,

quick, to my mouth.

Felt the thrumming beat

under my own skin, south.

It’s not mine to hold,

this story I twist.

But it’s lodged in my throat,

a cold, unwanted fist.