The Thing I Promised

I caught myself this morning

doing the thing I swore I wouldn't.

February. Already a warning

that my promises never could.

I stand there mid-motion,

caught in the act once again.

The third year. The third ocean

of breaking what I promised then.

There's evidence everywhere—

small marks,

the way my hands move

like they've been here before,

like they know the way

without asking permission.

My hands remember the rhythm.

My body knows what it wants

more than my mind knows what it promised.

Tomorrow I'll make the promise again.

Tomorrow I'll mean it this time.

Tomorrow I'll give in.

Tomorrow I'll lose the climb.

This is what I'm good at—

this reaching toward different,

this falling back at that,

this knowing I'm different.