Broken

In my hands was a thing,
valued, but very unimportant.
I slackened my grip on slippery edges
and cracked the screen.
It's hard to see now, but I can use it.

In my hands was a possibility,
gleaming, but growing slowly.
I pushed too hard and scarred tender pride
and hurt his feelings.
We talk now, but it's not what it could have been.

In my hands was a life,
precious, but panting for air.
I poured too fast, surpassed its tiny appetite,
and drowned a kitten.
I still cry about it now, but it's dead.

In my hands was my time,
unformed, but unrelenting in its progress.
I let it go, was towed into chaotic ruin,
and wasted the years.
They seem pathetic now, but I can't get them back.