Cracks in the kitchen

In the lamplight, a chipped mug—

a mouthful of cracked white and worn blue.

I trace the edge, fingers catching

on the splintered rim,

remembering mornings filled with steam

and the sharp sting of cheap coffee.

The table’s corner bears the scars

of impatience and restless nights,

the room holds its breath

between the chipped paint and cracked tiles.

Boxes lean, heavy with forgotten things,

and I hear the apartment sigh,

empty now,

but still haunted by the sound

of cups clinking, days slipping,

slow and uneven,

like the crack that runs

beneath the kitchen light.