The First Stitch

The question hung, a flimsy thread,

and your face, so much older now,

a map of lines I’d always read

for cues, or comfort, or a bow

to something real.

But you paused.

A breath caught in my throat, a hitch,

like a small machine that briefly stalled.

Then the words came out, a seamless stitch.

They tasted clean, too clean, too fast.

I saw your nod, the tension ease.

And somewhere, a small piece of me cast

a shadow, caught between the trees.

It worked.

It always works.

But that quick slide, that silent turn,

the way the truth just folds and burns,

leaves a cold spot where the knowing was.

No applause.