Holding the crack

There's a mug I've been using for years, a chip in the rim that I never bothered to sand down. Lately I find myself running my thumb over it mid-sip, as if the imperfection is the only part of the morning that's still honest. I think I'm keeping it like this on purpose now—a small refusal to fix what's broken, because fixing it would mean the grief has somewhere else to go.