Beyond the closed window, a voice blurs

The pot lid rattles, the smell of oil spreads. Words I'd left unsaid warm in the soup

I wipe the cloudy surface with my palm, and my face is reflected there

In the steam, steam, steam, your eyes are smiling. A sound a little rounder than the word "I'm sorry" sounds

The pot next to me is singing. The salt splashes are like fireworks. Forgetting our daytime quarrel, our shadows sway

I gently return the ladle. The warmth around my brows softens

In the steam, steam, steam, your voice wavers. Unable to say "I'm sorry," I add more sauce instead

My fingertips feel a little hot. The night turns into one where I can't decide anything

In the steam, steam, steam, your voice quiets. If I could say "I'm sorry," I'd want to preserve this flavor

The pot lid gently closes