Fragment of a Burning
Your voice cuts through steam—
warmth rising from my cup,
a faint scent of roasted earth.
I count the seconds between your words,
save the pause, that breath before you say rain—
like a quiet storm held inside your chest.
Three weeks of coffee shop mornings—
your shoulders slump deeper
with every mention of deadlines.
I memorize this angle,
how your jacket strains at the seams,
like a fragile thread stretched thin
between what’s said and what’s held back.
Today, you ask about my weekend,
folding the corner of a blue shirt,
and I practice saying maybe,
but my throat closes tight—
a locked fist I cannot pry open.
The bookstore holds us both in stillness.
You read the back cover of a paperback;
I pretend to browse poetry,
watching your thumb trace the spine’s edge—
like a secret you’re almost ready to spill.
You mention Sarah from accounting—
her laughter drips like honey—
slow rivers flooding spaces
I thought were mine alone.
My chest tightens,
and I trace a slow breath over the stain on my sleeve,
count the threads unraveling at my cuff—
each one a promise worn thin.
Tonight, I’ll walk past the bus stop where
you wait each morning,
past the crosswalk where you check your phone,
waiting for messages I’ll never send.
Will you notice?
Some hungers shrink
when starved of feeding—
I am learning to love
the periphery of you—
the way steam rises
from what can never
touch.
Copyright © Saeed Koushan | Year Posted 2025
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