It was someone else's box

It was someone else's box.

That's what I keep coming back to.

I lifted from the knees

the way you're supposed to

and something in the lower back

said no, plainly,

and I went down slow

onto the linoleum.

Lay there a while.

The ceiling had a water stain

shaped like nothing I could name.

A truck went by outside.

I thought about how I got here—

not the floor, I mean the arrangement.

The box. The favor.

The apartment where someone else's name

is still on the lease.

A spine has its logic.

Mine waited for the right moment—

the wrong weight, the wrong angle—

then made its position clear.

I got up eventually.

Moved the box to the corner.

Texted back: fine, no problem.

Happy to help.