The Lighthouse Chip

Cleaning out, the dust a fine grit

on everything. I came across it,

tucked beneath old bills, a small ceramic weight.

The coaster, cracked, met an old fate

when it slipped from fingers, long ago.

Its faded lighthouse, standing in the glow

of memory, the blue glaze, a missing chip

where it hit the floor, a quiet slip.

I traced the rough edge with my thumb,

the smooth, cool underside, numb.

We found it at a market, hot and loud.

Now, it just sits, a tiny shroud

for something gone, something we bought

and broke, and then forgot,

or almost did. The chip, a perfect cut,

where the light of us used to shut.