Worn Through

I found them in the back of the closet,

scuffed leather, the left sole

worn down on one side

more than the other,

the heel compressed smooth

from years of impact,

from the way I walk,

from whatever it was

I was walking toward

or away from.

These are the shoes

I wore when—

But I can't remember the specific when.

There are too many whens.

Too many times these shoes

carried me somewhere,

and I just kept walking,

kept wearing the leather thin,

kept hitting the ground

in the same way

over and over

until the sole learned

the shape of my step.

The left shoe has a blister mark

on the inside where my foot

rubbed against it.

The right shoe is almost pristine.

This asymmetry tells a story—

that I favored one side,

that my body was uneven,

that I walked in circles,

always turning left,

always wearing down

one shoe more than the other.

I put them on.

They still fit.

The leather still holds

the shape of my feet,

the indentation of my heel,

the worn spot where

my pinky toe

pressed against the side.

These shoes know me

better than I know myself—

know the pressure I put on them,

know the distance I traveled,

know the specific way

my body moves through space.

I took them off.

Put them back in the dark corner.

Some things

don't need to be worn again.

Some things

are already too full

of the person

who wore them.