It began with a mug,
plain, white, unassuming,
picked up from the thrift store shelf
for a dollar or less.
A small chip on the rim,
a scuff along the handle,
yet somehow, it felt like it fit my hand
better than anything new ever could.
It wasn’t just a mug, of course—
it became the center of mornings:
steam rising like a ghost,
a swirl of cream that bloomed
into galaxies of soft beige.
I drank everything from it—
coffee too strong,
tea brewed too weak,
even water late at night
when the world was unbearably quiet.
And one day, years later,
as I washed it carefully in the sink,
I thought of you.
How, like that mug,
you’d been there for so many mornings,
for so many evenings.
And though I would never
say this to you aloud,
afraid you’d laugh at the comparison,
I thought of all the things
you had held for me—
my weariness, my joy,
my tangled mess of worries.
You are better than a mug,
loved more dearly,
and I wish you saw it too,
that you are a better fit for me
than anyone new could ever be,
forever and always more like home,
with or without a chip or two.