Caught Between Floors

There's a gesture you do,

nothing obscene, nothing even interesting,

just a small repeated motion of your hand

that means something only to you,

or maybe means nothing at all

and that's the point—

the freedom to do meaningless things

when the doors are closed

and the world is reduced to

four walls and the sound of your breathing.

You were doing it this morning when the doors

opened at floor three and a child walked in,

and you froze mid-motion like someone

caught committing a crime.

Your hand stopped in the air.

The steel panel caught your reflection—

half-there, uncertain,

guilty of nothing but being seen.

The kid didn't care. Kids never care.

But you stood very still for the rest of the ride,

arms at your sides like you were being

photographed for evidence,

and now the shame sits in your chest

though shame makes no sense for this,

for the small private ritual

of being alone with yourself.

Shame doesn't care about logic.

It just knows you were caught

being yourself

and that's apparently enough.