Thirty seconds is all it took

Thirty seconds is all it took

to remember what my arms used to feel like

when they weren't alone.

The bookshelf is heavier than I thought,

or I'm weaker than I thought,

or both, probably both,

and then they're there,

their hand finding the other end

without being asked.

For maybe half a minute

we're moving together,

the bookshelf between us,

my side lifting,

their side steady,

both of us breathing the same rhythm.

I feel their palm rough against my forearm—

calluses, work-worn,

the kind of hands that know

what it feels like to carry something.

Then we set it down.

We step apart.

The moment is over.

But my arm remembers.

My body remembers

what it felt like to not do this alone,

what it felt like to have someone

on the other end,

matching my pace,

knowing without asking

exactly how much to lift.

I want to thank them

but the words feel too big

for thirty seconds of silence.

Instead I nod.

They nod back.

We both pretend

this wasn't the most intimate thing

that's happened to me in months.

We both pretend

my arm isn't still warm

where they touched it.