The room was silent, or so they say.

Noise was present, as it always is

when a room is not empty. The dull hum

of the fridge fills the quiet. 

Why is the theoretical silence so loud? Who told it,

Be noisy? It wasn’t me but

perhaps, it was you. Glances 

across the kitchen to where you stand,

broken glass still littering the floor. Mouth

agape in apparent shock, you stare stupidly at me.

Yes, I threw it at you.

The light blue pitcher, which we dubbed Sir Vase

with an ivory orchid, now molded into a mess

of shards. The container was dead, 

as the flower would soon be. Our love

crushed beside the disarray.

Your infidelity caused this, not my unbridled rage.

Your transgressions can’t be forgiven with a mere plant,

even if it was my favorite. Ironic that in the language of flowers, it represents

refinement, love, and beauty. There is none of that here, but

this is what kitchens are made of:

broken dishes and broken dreams.

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