Where My Hand Was

The car was backing out fast

and I grabbed your arm.

Not anger—just the yank

that happens when the body

decides before you do.

This morning you reached

for the coffee filters

and your sleeve rode up

and I saw it.

Greenish-yellow. The size of a quarter.

The exact shape of my thumb

pressed into the soft inside

of your forearm.

You said it's fine.

You said it twice,

which is how I know

you saw me seeing it.

I keep running the math—

how hard a hand has to close

to leave a color in someone's skin

that lasts twelve hours.

How the same grip

that pulled you clear

is the thing I keep staring at

over breakfast.

You buttoned your sleeve

and I poured your coffee

and we let the morning

close over it

the way skin closes over everything

if you give it enough time.

But I saw it.