Porcelain

On my phone, a voicemail
I still can't delete.
Her voice.
Alive, ordinary,
asking about nothing important.

I cry at the sink.
Rinse the same blue coffee cup
again and again,
as if water could lift a stain
etched into porcelain.

There's no pause button.
The mail arrives.
The neighbor's dog
barks at nothing.

Grief sits down beside me,
gratitude pours another cup.
We talk like old friends.

My heart keeps breaking
and keeps saying
thank you.

There is room for both.
Still.