Break

When the clock strikes eight and the kettle sighs,
Morning’s first light spills over the kitchen tiles—
A soft, hesitant crack of porcelain against the counter,
A fragile fracture that sings of quiet rebellion.

We speak of a break as a pause, a breath held,
Between the bustle of trains and the rustle of pages,
A moment when the world tilts, just enough,
To let the heart catch its rhythm in the hush of rain‑kissed streets.

Yet a break can also be the snap of a twig underfoot,
The sudden shiver when a promise snaps like old rope,
Or the quiet surrender of a habit finally loosened,
Leaving space for new shoots to push through cracked earth.

So here’s to the break—both mending and marring,
The interval where we stitch ourselves anew,
Finding strength not in the unbroken whole,
But in the honest, humble fissure where light gets in.