Crumbled Quiet

I hold a piece, a cloud in my fist—

white flakes drift in dim kitchen mist.

Cheap loneliness, sharp and slight,

a ghost that shivers in the light.

It crumbles slow, like brittle sighs,

a soundless crack, a soft demise.

Floating dust on cracked linoleum floors,

witness to loneliness behind closed doors.

Cold plastic pieces, broken and small,

a fractured silence I can’t call.

The kitchen light hums, indifferent, alone—

here, Styrofoam flakes become bone.