The Grammar of Almost

I had one hand on the door.
You held the mug
I was about to leave behind,
its chip against your thumb.

The tea had filmed over;
your spoon made one small break
and left it open.

The room kept its objects
in the wrong tense:
key, cup, wrist,
the table’s small shore between us.

I kept my name,
but not its edges.

When your finger found
the blue vein at my wrist,
the skin answered
before I did—

not yes,
not stay,

only the smallest pressure
making grammar
of blood.

I had been singular
so long
even my shadow
waited apart from me.

Then we—
not spoken,
not promised—
lifted as steam
from the chipped rim.

Under it,
what withdrew
returned
rubbed thinner,

less sure
where it ended.

By morning,
the door stood open.
My key lay beside yours,
not touching.

When I said my name
to test its outline,

salt gathered
on the last consonant.