Teacup

Beneath the spare, a dented thing,

a porcelain cup, so out of place.

No saucer with it, doesn't sing

of journeys, or a hurried chase.

A faded rose, a hairline crack,

its handle smooth against my thumb.

How did it end up on the rack?

Where did this sudden strangeness come?

It holds no coffee, tea, or water,

just dust and shadows, light and air.

A fragile, lost, forgotten daughter

of some past life I cannot share.