Quick Shatter

The argument had ended, or just paused,

a brittle quiet, stretched too thin.

My hand reached out, without a cause,

and gripped the mug, from deep within.

It felt so good, for just a beat,

to throw it down, against the floor.

The sound was sharp, a quick, complete

destruction, then nothing more.

Just pieces, small and white and keen,

reflecting light, a broken grace.

A stupid mess, a petty scene.

And that hollow feeling, in its place.