I hold the cracked mug in one hand

I hold the cracked mug in one hand,

a weak promise curled in uneven ribbons of glue,

sticky and sharp in the dim kitchen light.

Dropped again, shattered like the moment it fell,

a brittle line across the rim,

that sickly sheen of drying adhesive,

a half-finished fix I can’t quite get right.

Fingers smeared, clumsy, hopeful,

but the edges refuse to meet cleanly,

like a stubborn wound left half closed,

a mess of sticky hope I’m too tired to straighten.

This patch job, a quiet failure

I keep pressing, waiting for dry,

a stubborn glue trapping the cracks

that should have been left alone.