Super Gap

The mug was chipped, a clean sharp break,

a foolish, clumsy, old mistake.

I lined the pieces, held them tight,

the liquid clear, a sticky light.

It dried too fast, a white thin film,

along the edge, a sudden qualm.

A slight lean now, a tilted lip,

where the handle tried to hold its grip.

The gap is there, a silver line,

a failure, stark, completely mine.

It holds, but wrong, a constant tease,

no comfort now, no perfect ease.

My fingers still feel stiff and slow,

the residue, a silent show.