Fragile Glaze

The figurine wobbled on the shelf—

tiny porcelain woman, lips cracked in a smile,

still not quite broken.

Dust settled thick between forgotten things,

a room that smells of cigarette smoke and lost promises.

She stood there, a pale ghost frozen in pose,

soft glaze catching the dim afternoon light.

I knocked her, almost casually,

a breath held tight like a fault line.

She didn't fall,

but the wobble was enough to show me

what’s too delicate to last,

what’s too clean to hold the dirt,

and the silence that slips in the cracks,

where you think nothing will break,

but everything can.