I froze when my hand brushed it

I froze when my hand brushed it,

the tape already brittle, already

lifting at the corner like it was tired

of holding whatever this is to the door.

The paper is soft from being touched

by fingers that check on it, adjust it,

smooth it back down when it starts

to peel away. I smoothed it now.

Pressed it back against the metal.

Felt the tape give a little under my thumb.

I don't remember when it was taped there.

I just know it's important enough

to keep, fragile enough to panic about

when my hand brushes it reaching for

something else. The corner keeps lifting.

The tape keeps failing. And I keep

smoothing it back down like I can

make it stay, like I can hold it together

with the pressure of my thumb.

It's been there long enough that I don't

see it anymore. Only when I almost

knock it down do I remember it exists.

Only when my hand is reaching past it

and I feel the paper, the tape,

the thing it's protecting, do I realize

how much I don't want to lose it.

How much I'm willing to believe

that pressing it back into place

is the same as saving it.