Trace

It slipped,

a clean, cold cube from my hand,

landed with a quiet clack

on the counter.

I didn't pick it up.

Just watched the light catch

its hard edges, then soften,

blurring to a bead.

A small world,

shrinking, giving up its form

to a spreading wetness.

The ceiling fan,

upside down,

reflected in the growing pool.

And then, just water.

A perfect, cool slick

where something solid

had been.

Leaving only

the ghost of cold.