The Weight of My Wrist

I brushed against the rough edge, a fleeting sting,

the counter’s splinters whispering tales of past falls.

I felt my wrist bone shift, an ache that can cling,

a reminder of moments like raindrops on walls.

Here in the kitchen, the scent of garlic hangs,

a symphony of dinner and the day’s winding down,

time steals the weight from what our heartbeat sang,

fragile and tender, but caught like a frown.

Each touch tells a story of lives intertwined,

delicate threads, yet my pulse is a drum.

In the stillness, these bones echo, resigned—

a reminder of all the things I become.