The Shard

The street was loud, just cars and feet,

then their voices, cutting, sharp, not sweet.

He flung it out, a jagged stone,

'You never tried,' he made it known.

Her face went still, a mask of hurt,

and I felt my own old anger spurt.

A flash, a burn, a chilling dread,

for words I’d launched, that truth I’d spread.

'You always take,' my voice was cold,

a story then, stark and bold.

It sliced, I knew, and left a scar,

that bitter truth, like a falling star.

I saw her flinch, and knew the sting,

the awful knowledge that words bring

when they are sharp, and hit their mark,

leaving behind a hollow, empty dark.

I still regret the way it fell,

but not the truth, that painful spell.