Fragment of a Burning
Your voice cuts through steam
from my cup. I count
the seconds between each word,
save the way you pause
before saying rain.
Three weeks of coffee shop mornings—
your shoulders slump deeper
when you mention deadlines.
I memorize this angle,
how your jacket pulls
at the seams.
Today you ask about my weekend,
folding a blue shirt corner to corner.
I practice saying "maybe"
but my throat
closes like a fist.
The bookstore holds us
both in its quiet.
You read the back
of a paperback while I
pretend to browse poetry,
watching your thumb trace
the spine's edge.
Then you mention Sarah
from accounting—
how she laughs at your jokes,
how she brought you coffee
this morning.
My chest tightens.
I trace a slow breath
over the stain
on my sleeve,
count the threads
coming loose
at my cuff.
Tonight I'll walk past
the bus stop where
you wait each morning,
past the crosswalk
where you check
your phone for messages
I'll never send.
Will you notice?
Some hungers shrink
when you stop feeding them.
I'm learning to want
the size of what's possible—
your Tuesday morning nod,
the way you say my name
when others are listening,
the steam rising
from two separate cups.
Copyright © Saeed Koushan | Year Posted 2025
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