What I Did With My Hands

The bleach smell landed first, then the tile,

then the tap in the third stall still running—

and I was twenty-two again for a while,

which I hadn't counted on this morning.

Your shoulder braced against the wall

at that specific angle, like a door

holding itself shut. I watched it all

go out of you and hit the floor,

and I just gathered your hair in my hands.

Both of them. Carefully. That was it.

No plan. No one understands

the geometry of someone else's split-

open moment until they're standing in it.

The faucet ran. I let it run.

I don't know what I was to you that minute.

A coworker now. The night already done.