The Slow Arc

It was the mug. My favorite,

the one with the hairline fracture

I always meant to glue.

It just slipped.

No dramatic grab, no sudden lurch.

One second in my hand,

the next,

a slow, inevitable arc

towards the tile floor.

I watched it, didn't I?

Saw the blue glaze catch the light,

the way it spun,

a tiny, perfect ballet

of impending ruin.

Steam rose from the spill,

a soft mist,

like a ghost sighing

over the scattered shards.

I just stood there.

The water on the floor,

reflecting nothing I wanted to see.