What You Almost Said

I saw you at the counter ordering,

your usual, I think, or maybe you changed it,

and the machine behind you was hissing

the way it always does, angry steam,

and your face turned toward the door

the moment before you saw me, open,

expectant, the foam sitting on top

of whatever you ordered like it was meant

for someone else, someone who could hold it

without their throat closing, without thinking

about the text message your partner hasn't seen,

the one about the city three states over,

the one your friend told me about like it was

a secret she'd been holding so long it became

a stone in her mouth. I almost said it.

I stood there by the sugar station, my hand

reaching for a napkin I didn't need,

and almost told you something that wasn't

mine to break open. The barista called a name.

You turned back to the counter. I left.