The Price of Being Right

The house is so quiet I can hear the fridge hum.

You left an hour ago, slamming the frame.

I won the argument, but I’ve just become

a man sitting alone with a piece of the blame.

I looked down and saw it near the table leg,

a cheap blue coaster shattered into three.

I didn't mean to break it, or to beg,

but the sharp, jagged edge is looking at me.

A plastic shard, useless and bright,

cutting the air where your hand used to rest.

It’s the trophy I get for being so right,

for putting our common ground to the test.

I’d trade every word and every logical point

just to hear the door creak at the hinge's joint.