The Cup

His hand was shaking when he reached for the coffee mug.

I saw it before he did.

The tremor in his fingers.

I didn't say anything.

The mug turned through the air like it had time,

like it wasn't sure it was falling.

The brown liquid spread across the tile in a shape

that looked like a map of somewhere

I didn't want to visit.

The ceramic pieces scattered.

I stood there.

He laughed it off—said something about butterfingers,

but his hand was shaking worse

and I realized I hadn't moved.

I'd just watched it happen.

This is what I do now.

I watch things break.

I watch people break.

I stand there with my hands empty.

Later I cleaned up the pieces.

The liquid had dried into a stain.

I scrubbed at it until the grout darkened.

He was in the living room, his hand steady now,

or maybe it was always steady

and I just needed it to be shaking

to have a reason to feel something.