Morning Fracture

Coffee stains map the chipped counter,

a sloppy crescent left behind.

The toaster sputters, a cough of smoke,

burnt toast bits crumbling in the tray.

Sun slices the kitchen in sharp angles,

hitting the chipped ceramic mug,

half-full, half-forgotten,

cold and stubborn.

The spill runs slow like a broken promise,

mixing with the scent of smoke and stale day-old dreams,

a morning cracked wide open

before it even started.

I wipe the mess, watching the rag

catch threads of yesterday

and something fragile, unsaid,

slipping through my fingers.