I Know

Halfway through the sentence

she said I know.

Not gently. Not with the tilt.

Just flat, the way you'd confirm

the time.

The cup between us too hot

to lift. My fingers

near the ceramic,

not touching.

I'd rehearsed the flinch.

The are you sure. The pause

where I'd have to prove

it again.

But she said I know

before I finished and the door

I'd been bracing against

was open. Had been open

this whole time.

The room didn't change.

Same light. Same table.

But something shifted overhead —

furniture moving

in an upstairs apartment. You hear it

through the ceiling.

You can't see what moved.

I believed her believing me

the way you believe a floor.

Not because it explains itself.

Because it doesn't give.