Aftershakes

My hands shook so hard they spilled the coffee,

a trembling apology in a ceramic pool.

Muscles tensed like a rope frayed,

the fight’s residue clinging to skin,

a body that won’t forget the storm.

Fingers catch at the mug’s chipped rim,

a cracked shield I can’t steady,

trembling not from fear but from a storm inside,

a silent tremor after the fight’s final word.

The shaking doesn’t ask for forgiveness,

or neat endings,

just waits—patient and raw—

like a ghost you don’t see until it’s too late.