Waiting to Fall

A white 

ceramic 

mug

placed on the edge of the table,

a semi-circle ring jutting out over the precipice.

Coffee sitting stagnant in its belly, 

tasting colder, 

staler, 

with each sip.

Leaving a stained rime on the virgin white

where it has receded.

It sits there, inches away from my hand.

Nails bitten down, 

discolored

patches dry and flaky,

wrinkles beginning to show.

I watch,

from the corner of my eye.

The mug.

So brittle. 

Already lines 

in the places I know it would break apart

if it fell.

when it fell.

My hand heavy on the table,

turned lead with the power

of possibility,

the what if.

The I could.

I see the liquid 

spreading across the tiles,

pungent,

seeping out from between sharp edges

of ceramic shards.

Spreading still, 

down tracks of grout. 

Until a faceless person

lays down a rag and sops the mess up.

Sweeps the stained-ivory pieces aside,

throws the whole deal in a trash can to be driven away 

the next morning.

But my hand has not moved yet,

and still the mug sits with a semi-circle of rim jutting over the precipice,

and my hand tensed,

and watching

watching

waiting,

waiting,

waiting.



-Skye K.
January 29th 2014