Still it holds.

Cradled in trembling palms, the cracked cup sings

a thin, hairline splitting porcelain skin,

its jagged grin catching glints of morning light.

Steam rises like a ghost from its chipped lip,

whispers warmth into the wearer's waiting hands.

Still it holds—holds the hush,

holds the steeped sorrow,

holds the trembling touch

of every tongue tied morning.

It does not break.

It does not beg.

It simply is full, flawed, and  faithful.