Empty Spoon

The cup sat, still hot,

a memory of steam.

I watched the last white grit

spin itself into nothing,

a final, slow dissolve.

Not a crash, not a shatter.

Just less and less and less,

until the spoon, heavy and cold,

rested against the rim.

No purpose left.

The brown stain inside

the ceramic held its shape.

But the sweet, the belief

it would always be there,

that just went quiet.