Just a Ring

It dropped and spun, a perfect cube,

forgotten there beside the sink.

A clear, hard fact, a frozen tube,

too much effort, I just think.

So it stayed, on slate, dark and cool,

a quiet, slow, dissolving thing.

Each minute, a small, shrinking pool,

a liquid argument it would bring.

Its edges softened, blurred and round,

the form it held, no longer keen.

Then just a puddle, on the ground,

where once a solid shape had been.

And later, only a faint damp mark,

a cool spot, quickly gone to air.

A silent end, within the dark

space of what had once been there.