His hand grabbed my sleeve

His hand grabbed my sleeve,

not gentle, just catching,

keeping me from stepping into the street

where the light was red

and the car was already moving.

For a second I felt it—

the weight of his grip,

the way my arm could be held,

the way my body could be smaller,

the way someone could just

lift you up

and move you

and you'd be safe.

I haven't been carried

in so long I forgot

what the sky looked like

from someone else's arms,

what it meant

to be the kind of person

who could be picked up.

But he didn't pick me up.

He just held my sleeve,

kept my feet on the pavement,

and the light changed,

and we crossed,

and I was still too heavy,

still mine to carry,

still the person who had to walk

their own weight

across the street.

I wanted to say thank you

for the smallest version of it,

for remembering

what I'd stopped asking for,

for the moment where I was almost

held.