The Hand Knows

The light is red

and my hand is already reaching,

already knowing the route,

the tap, the unlock,

the feed that will be

exactly the same as it was

three minutes ago.

I know this.

My thumb knows this.

My thumb has muscle memory

that my brain

can't catch up with.

There's nothing new.

There's never anything new,

but I'm scrolling anyway,

the motion is the point,

the scroll itself

is what my fingers are after,

not the content,

just the repetition,

the proof that something

is happening,

that I'm doing something,

that I'm connected

to something

even though the only thing

connecting me

is this

exact

motion.

The light changes.

I don't notice.

The person behind me honks.

I'm already driving,

still scrolling,

my eyes split

between the road

and the screen,

between two things

I don't actually want

but can't stop

reaching for.

The phone is warm.

It's always warm.