Where Your Hands Are

// originally posted on Sheridan’s Junk Drawer

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Her body remembered things

 she thought were gone.

 Her shoulders stopped living near her ears.

 Weight did not send her elsewhere.

She does not know how to fake that.

 Does not know how to kiss

 without meaning.

 Alone that long,

 her body stopped distinguishing

 between touch and intent.

She watched him step closer

 and did not step back.

 Not because she wanted more—

 because she does not know how

 to make less.

Some people can survive almosts.

 She cannot.

Her heart does not speak casually.

 It does not survive being opened

 and told it is misunderstood. 

Do not take her hand.

 Do not stop her world.

 Do not touch what took her years

 to let breathe again.

Because to her,

 being held

 is already a decision.

s.g.