The Weight of Knowing

The spine was open

like an invitation.

Like a mouth

already mid-sentence.

I was just going to move it—

clear the table,

be helpful,

the way you do at someone else's house.

But my hand saw my name

already there.

My name

already written.

Already thought about.

Already something worth recording.

I could have kept walking.

Should have.

But the hand is its own creature.

The hand wants to know.

The hand kept holding

the open spine.

The hand kept reading

what wasn't meant

for hands to read.

Now I carry it—

that sentence,

that thought,

that small window

into what she said

when I wasn't in the room.

The hand that moved it

also can't unknow it.

The hand that tried to help

became the thing

that stole.