Ceramic Collapse

The mug, my good one, hand-thrown clay,

slipped from the counter's edge, wet and warm.

I saw it go, a slow, certain sway,

before the floor met its porcelain storm.

Time stretched, a thick, sticky thread,

as it arced down, tea splashing, brown.

My breath caught, a word left unsaid,

just watched the slow, inevitable crown

of foam shatter, ceramic flowers bloom

in sharp, white pieces on the tile floor.

The sound was small, filled up the room.

And I stood, frozen, wanting nothing more

than to undo that falling, but I just watched.