Misfired Gesture

It wasn’t meant to sting.   

I swear, my fingers reached humbly,  

a truce offering dressed as an olive branch.   

But your face sharpened,   

the air between us went brittle.  

It's strange how intentions can crack,  

falling like porcelain, splitting quietly.  

My hand hung there, a bridge  

no one dared cross.  

The moment stretched wide, awkward—   

the kind of quiet young moons inherit.  

You shifted back, shoulders locking,  

mistrust pooling at your feet.   

I wanted to say: “Not like that.  

I didn’t mean…” but the words quivered,  

took three steps in the wrong direction.  

Isn’t that how it always happens?   

Meaning breaks like a fever  

and we’re left holding the clammy sheets,  

fingers too clumsy to fold the fabric  

into anything resembling apology.  

I don’t know whose silence was louder  

when you turned away first.  

All I know is my hand  

still remembers where it paused,  

halfway to hope.