The Cup
There’s a crack running from the rim to somewhere the eye can’t follow.
Still, they choose this cup.
One by one, they pour themselves into it,
voices, confessions, the kind of silence that arrives after tears.
It fills beyond its own weight,
yet never asks to be emptied.
More cracks appear.
The rim grows rough.
The handle lets go first.
Stains settle where washing cannot reach.
It isn’t beautiful anymore.
It is familiar.
Somehow, the tea stays warm.
Hands stop shaking.
No fear ever spills back out.
By morning,
the cup is heavier than anyone remembers leaving it.
One Response
No ideas but in things. Interesting view, and the final line is great