There lies a porcelain saucer right in my diaphragm,
Cupping the pain,
A balance act,
Sometimes the liquid tips a bit to the left,
Droplets of suffering,
On to the table.
They turns into little marbles,
Rolling down the dinner table,
Free falling onto the floor.
In those moments, I hold very still
Not willing to let the saucer topple.
Each time a new crack appears,
Internal golden repair.
If you listen to my voice,
you can hear it.
The soft echo of someone holding on.
Just like you.