Perfect Break

The cup fell from my fingers—

a sharp snap, no scatter, no shatter.

Two halves lie quietly,

like old friends who walked away without a word.

Edges sharp, unmoved,

they don't scream in silence,

just rest beside each other,

calm and still, like broken halves that fit no longer.

I watch the line split smooth,

clean as winter ice on glass,

a break so even it confuses the eye.

The cup is gone, but it left this,

sharp and whole,

a quiet kind of fracture that still holds itself together.