The Smallest Swear

In the photograph, we’re seven years old

with dirt packed deep under every nail.

We were trading secrets like they were gold

and making a pact that was destined to fail.

I can see the white pressure of the bone

where our smallest fingers were hooked tight.

It’s the kind of weight you carry alone

when you’re the only one left in the light.

You mentioned the trip we were supposed to take

and laughed like the memory was just a joke.

But my finger still feels that old, dull ache

from the very first promise I ever broke.