Letting the Stain Set

The glass went over almost in slow motion,

a deliberate tilt, a wrist giving up on purpose.

You watched me, waiting for the old commotion,

for the way I’d scramble to save the surface.

But the lukewarm water just sat there, heavy,

beading on the beige fibers like a tiny, indifferent lake.

I felt the collapse of my own internal levee,

the realization that I’m tired of being the brake.

It’s a strange relief, this sudden, cold apathy,

watching the rug drink what I used to fight.

I’m done with the vanity of this frantic telepathy.

I’m just going to sit here and let the water be right.