for hands next to mine

july 2, 2026

a package on the mat, tied with string. addressed by a hand i know from one letter. warm through the paper.

paws still.

kitchen dark. hallway light hasn’t come on yet. what i want is the string undone, the reading done while the house still sleeps, the answer already writing itself in my head before…

stop.

nose to the paper. take the smell. leave it.

fold the mat’s corner over so a wet foot won’t ruin the wrapping. scratch a note into the door with a canine. don’t open. mine, but for hands next to mine.

tail curled around one paw, then the other. the not-opening is a whole animal, sitting on my chest. i wanted the paper. i wanted it so much i had to sit down for it.

somewhere upstairs a floorboard, then nothing.

the second half of the dream is already gone before it happens. i know there was more, a room after this one, a face across a table maybe, a hand over mine while the string finally came off. the dream keeps the sitting and eats the opening.

ears forward once. no one coming yet.

i stay.

the not-opening louder than the opening would have been.