You told him the milk was spoiled

You told him the milk was spoiled,

his pour would've ruined the drink—

then immediately said sorry

like you'd insulted his mother,

like correction was a form of cruelty

only you could commit.

His hand froze on the steam wand.

He looked at you the way you look at those

who take up too much space

just by existing in it.

That was nine years ago and you still

feel the shape of that apology

in your mouth like a stone you swallowed,

smooth now from turning it over

so many times in the dark.

Sorry for noticing. Sorry for speaking.

Sorry for the way your voice

made the simple act of being right

sound like an accusation.

Your therapist asked what you say sorry for,

and suddenly there you were again—

apologizing for the milk,

for the morning,

for taking up air.