Cracked Glaze, Or, The Last Word

Pulled the mug, chipped at the lip,

the one you left. A clumsy slip,

a careless break, a little flaw,

like something etched into the law

of how we were. It caught the light,

a harsh, white scar, not really bright,

but shining.

And I heard it then,

your quiet voice, the way your head

would tilt just so, the words unsaid

but understood. A measured pause.

I lost that fight. I lost because

I kept on talking,

kept on trying,

while you just stood there, calmly, sighing.

And I learned,

too late, that silence can

be sharper than a shouting man.

It was a taste of stale, cold air,

that phantom coffee wasn't there.

Just that cracked edge,

a lesson learned,

a bridge, quite simply, burned.