The Clean Fault

I didn't mean to let the white plate go.

It slipped from soapy hands into the sink,

a dull and heavy thud, a quiet blow

before I even had the time to blink.

It didn't splinter into tiny shards

or ruin anything it landed on.

It split like we did—no defensive guards,

just two smooth halves before the day was gone.

I picked them up and held them edge to edge.

The inside was a porous, chalky gray.

I left them sitting on the window ledge,

a perfect break I couldn't glue away.