A Clean Break

The mug, a cheap souvenir,

slid off the counter, no fear,

just gravity's dull pull.

I braced for the crash, the shattered hull,

a mess of ceramic dust and sharp edges,

but it split,

clean as a promise, or a well-timed wit.

Two perfect halves,

handle still fixed to one, a small joke,

like some old love that just unspoke

itself, no shouting, no tear.

Just a seam appearing,

leaving two smooth, separate spheres

where one round thing used to be.

No jagged hurt,

just the strange fact of two,

where I swore there was only one.