What I Kept

There was an eyelash on her cheek

when she sat down — just below

the outer corner of the eye,

curved slightly, like it had been placed.

I noticed it in the first five minutes.

We had thirty-five more to go.

She was explaining something

about the project timeline

and I was nodding and the eyelash

was just there, not moving,

while I thought about whether to say it.

The calculation took longer than it should:

you have an eyelash on your cheek —

four words, neutral, a small gift —

but I'd already not said it

for too long by then.

To say it at minute twelve

would be to admit to minute eight,

to the nine and ten and eleven

I'd spent deciding.

So I didn't.

She left. I still know the exact position —

just below the outer corner,

the left eye, curved like a parenthesis

that opened and didn't close.

I don't know what I was protecting.

I kept it like a thing you keep

by failing to return it.