Held Shape

She wasn't looking,

just turning a page.

A slow, perfect circle,

released from its cage

of lips. It lifted,

crisp and precise,

a momentary gift,

a cold, calculated device.

Against the haze, it hovered,

a perfect round zero.

A breath, barely covered,

the briefest, silent hero.

Then, a soft break,

a waver, a fray.

A form to forsake,

just drifting away.

It spun, then unspun,

into nothing at all.

A trick, quickly done,

before it could fall.

The space it had filled

now empty and vast.

A quiet thing killed,

too perfect to last.