A stamp-sized pat of butter,
sizzling pan, slightly off center to the left,
melted, melting, a liquid ring mostly formed,
transparent and gold still in places, barely visible unless you catch the right angle in others,
giving in and up to fate, mostly, yet just enough solids hang on,
out, defiance, in the heat of the middle, just enough for you to know:
A breakup with your first love. Last.