Unintended Listening

The steam rose

from chipped cups,

curling around voices

not meant for me.

I caught a fragment,

a broken sentence

swallowed by clatter and chewing—

a threadbare confession,

soft and raw,

a thread loose in the fabric of noise.

"...didn’t mean to say it..."

the words slipped out

like spilled salt

across a tired table.

I wanted to turn away,

but the weight of it pressed

between the chipped plates,

lingering in the smell of coffee

and burnt toast,

waiting to be folded

into silence,

but still there,

stubborn as old cracks in plaster.