What were you going to ask?

What were you going to ask me
moments ago
when I went to tell you that the tea was ready
and I blurted into the suddenly-still room
where your mother’s doilies have taken station
and your roommate’s dusty floor project
hulks in the corner and I see no trace of you
except, somehow, a sweetness I have
no resistance to,
like a new strain of influenza.
What polite thing was on your lips when I
detonated into _I LOVE YOU_
in so naked and unready a space?

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