Mended Things

My fingers, numb and stiff,

press the jagged ceramic close.

The smell of acetone, a sharp, quick sting,

as pieces try to make a truce.

This mug, a clumsy, broken thing,

now held by clear, insistent thread.

A ghost of cracks, a fragile ring,

a whispered promise, left unsaid.

I hold it, breathing shallow, slow,

the chemical heat against my face.

Some things you fix, you always know

won't ever quite return to place.