Known Things

I stand in the bathroom mirror and zip up slow,

aware of exactly where the metal will catch,

where the slide moves smooth. I've done this

ten thousand times and it's different every time

and it's never different.

The pull tab worn to a shine from my thumb,

the fabric around it starting to fray.

I could replace this jacket. I don't.

I yank the zipper hard and it lurches forward

like I haven't taught it how to move yet.

There's a moment—always the same moment—

where I think it might break. The teeth won't align.

The metal sticks. Then something clicks into place

and I'm moving up again, smooth, like

the jacket and I have made a deal

we renew every single morning.

I know this thing the way you know

a body you've lived beside for years—

not because it's perfect, but because

you've learned its failures, its surprises,

its small stubborn refusals.

I zip it closed. The metal catches one more time.

I don't pull hard. I wait.

We find our way.