Last Stand at the Table

The mug cracked, rim chipped like my patience,

half full with bitter coffee—too strong,

too black, like what I couldn’t say.

Voices rose then fell into the drip of rain

against the window, steady, relentless.

She slammed the door. The silence stayed.

I stared at the chipped cup, counting cracks,

each a jagged line between us,

learning how silence is a heavier thing than noise,

a weight I carry when I should let go.