The Hand

I shouldn't have touched it.

The moment my hand made contact with the object—

smooth or cold or fragile, I can't remember which—

I felt the boundary break.

It was on the nightstand. It was mine to see but not mine to hold.

But I held it anyway.

Days later and I still feel guilty.

The guilt is a small weight in my chest,

the way touching something you're not supposed to touch

leaves a kind of mark.

I didn't break it. I didn't steal it.

But I violated something, some small private thing,

and the person whose room it was

doesn't know that I know.

Doesn't know that I crossed that line.

My hand still remembers the way it felt.