a mug

a mug i dearly loved developed a crack.

so subtle, but yet

sometimes my skirt would be covered in dark coffee drops or clear tea marks.

i never paid that much thought to that, and continued to wash my skirt as usual.

a mug i liked developed a scratch.

so innocent, but yet

if i looked closer, it was all i could see.

the soft surface of it was damaged, the rosiness was overshadowed by ruptured porcelain.

i started covering it up with bandaids to prevent coffee from leaking on my skirt again.

a mug of mine developed a split.

so hideous, but yet

it was mine.

not like i could get a new one or replace it in any way.

it was covered with coffee-filled cracks and bruised up with discolored scratches.

no amount of bandaids could fix the damage that had been done.

a mug i hated finally shattered.

so comforting, but yet

at what cost?

because this was never about a mug, or a soft, embracing surface

or coffee, that kept seeping out of bandaids.

not at all.

i glued the mug back together

and stopped drinking coffee

so healing, but yet

the cracks are lingering as evidence

that it is still deserving of love, as it once did.