Broken Grace

Thin rim presses cold

against my lip,

a cracked cup stained

with years of forgotten coffee.

Crazed glaze webs like veins

under dim kitchen light,

delicate spidering

that might snap with a breath.

My fingers brush the chip,

feeling its brittle edge —

something precious, fractured,

a silence held between us.

Fragile and chipped, it holds

old mornings, quiet talks,

a memory too delicate

to carry whole.