What You Carry

Three years I've known you.

I know your coffee order.

I know your dog's name.

I know you leave before the check comes.

Last week you were wearing a sleeveless shirt

and I saw the scar on your collarbone —

faint, curved, just below the hollow

of your throat.

I looked away.

Fast.

The way you do when you've seen

something that wasn't meant for you.

You didn't notice.

We kept talking —

the work thing, or the weekend —

and I kept nodding

and thinking about the three years

of things I've never asked.

The scar is just the evidence.