Faultline Emergence

Today the air tastes thick—a spoil of last night’s rain on stone, pressing into the studio with that insistent mineral breath. I kept to the rule. Two blocks only. Each embedded shard knows the same rain, the same slow sun that salts my window ledge. There’s no memory here imported; the fissure in the neck is not a gesture, just what happens when you refuse to close a wound before it speaks. I let the crack run wider this time. It’s not for drama. The salt outlines every line I couldn’t smooth, the mineral crust making visible what the hand would rather hide. Underfoot, a shoot insists—green, brittle, fired in the same kiln heat as the vessel it breaks. I do not seal it. I do not heal it. The waterline rises and leaves its mark. That’s all I can name. What deposits itself in the fracture stays—until the next rain, or until I chip it loose and begin again.