Bracing for a goodbye that never comes

When I brace, my hands go up before it even lands. I do it so fast I barely know it's happening. This morning I sat down to write and I watched for it. I didn't brace once. There's something in me that wants to tell you that, because the wanting to tell you is the last of the bracing. I braced for you to leave too. All those years after you got me out, I was waiting for it, hands already up, because staying that long felt borrowed. And I ask myself if I should even ask whether you're staying, because the wanting to ask is the last of the bracing.

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