She didn’t throw it.

She only let go, it

tumbled out of her hands,

bounced as it

hit the couch cushion,

jumped like it had a mind of its own, like it

was trying to go somewhere.

She didn’t throw it:

its travel was an arc

across the air, above the edge of the seat

falling recklessly to the carpet,

irresponsibly, but

She didn’t throw it, it

may have landed

face-down, screen shattered, or

It may have not, it may

have been gentle, a soft section of the floor.

She didn’t see.

She didn’t throw it,

She was only careless and

Tired, and

She didn’t see

where or how it landed because

She collapsed

on the couch cushion, 

body as limp as her fingers had been, 

as if

She had been held up by strings

violently cut.

She didn’t throw it, and didn’t see

If the screen splintered,

fractures spreading down the split surface

or if

momentary carelessness didn’t crack

at all.

She continued staring at the ceiling without seeing,

until finally her eyes closed

because the darkness felt soft and sweet.

These feelings pass,

submit to sunlight on warmer days,

but the invisible cracks

on the cell phone screen

remain.