What the Body Remembers

My hands still set the table for two. Not every night—just Thursdays, when my hands forget what my head decided months ago. The body has a filing system the mind knows nothing about: the exact pressure of your thumb on the small of my back, catalogued somewhere between breathing and blinking— the involuntary things I cannot seem to quit. I passed your street last Tuesday. My pulse picked up like a dog catching a familiar scent— stupid, loyal, sure that any second now the door will open. The mind says: you are free. The spine says: I was shaped by this. The hands say: it is Thursday. They set the extra plate.