All That Pressure, Nowhere

He said: you're doing well.

He said it twice. The second time

something closed in my throat—

not grief, not anything with a name,

just pressure, the kind that arrives

without a reason and has nowhere to go.

Forty minutes of reasonable words.

I nodded. Said thank you. Said

I really appreciate that.

Drove home with the radio off.

Parked on level two—

fluorescent light, the smell

of exhaust and concrete and cold

metal somewhere in the ceiling.

Sat with the key already in.

Not turning it.

The thing about almost crying

is it leaves a residue—

a low tightness in the jaw

all evening, an unspent

pressure the body doesn't know

what to do with.

The ventilation hummed.

I drove home eventually.