What the Shoulders Remember

After two weeks of not moving—

not from sadness, just from the weight

of deciding what to do with this body—

I reached up for something on the high shelf.

My shoulders worked.

Not smooth. Not graceful.

Just: worked.

My legs walked to the corner store yesterday.

They remembered the curb, the rhythm,

the small violence of moving forward.

I followed them like a passenger

in my own coat.

Today I can't stop thinking about the sweat

in the collar of my shirt—

honest and almost sweet.

I smelled like something alive,

like my body had been keeping time

while I sat still and watched.

There's a small panic in this,

in your shoulders remembering

before you do, in your legs

choosing to move and you

having to follow along

like you were never in charge at all.

But you follow anyway

because the alternative is

wearing your own skin

like someone else's closet.