I said I did not need a mug. And yet there you were,
Blinking wonder at me from a quiet shop window.
Your swirls and curves creating a tantrum of a storm
Which, I did not know then, would almost wreck my boat.
You were too delicate – said reason and I, heavy-handed.
Yet I imagined sipping warmth from your deepest corners.
One day, I found myself admiring the rough edges of you,
And I held you all the way home, feeling the richest of all.
No matter all the times I caught my finger on that chip,
You were my favourite, got on with the kettle and sink.
I missed it when you didn’t whisper stories about leaves,
And perhaps you missed it too when I couldn’t hold you;
But nothing compared to when you slipped out and away.
You may forgive me if I tell you that I got mugged again.
Part of me was relieved to bleed on your shattered pieces
Because now, I wasn’t the only broken thing in the room.
I knew better from breaking mugs than to try to mend you,
So I just sat there for a while, sweeping my pieces as I cried.
Then I dug my fingers into your sharp edges just to touch you.
Instead of the kettle, my blood was boiling in breathless rage,
And the only thing sinking was my soul, having you no more.
Flooding of feelings, I just couldn’t let your storm take me,
So I cleaned the mess we both made, this is not a crime scene.
I took the fragments of you, my fingers tracing what we were;
I put them on the wall, like a mosaic of stories of the broken.
Letting the sunshine warm your swirls and tame your seas,
Sitting under your shape, for now I drink from a plastic cup.
I know with broken things you either mend or you leave,
But I hope that for this once, you, being a mug of any kind
Or being art, fragments of the stories of us, I hope you stay.
Because I think we could still be the broken and mug-nificent.