Paint Chip

We sit-

my porcelain doll and I,

her cheeks like the milk in my bowl

a memory of sweet Lucky Charms.

-unchipped

Not like my socks

or our marshmallow sofa.

Like the silhouette

of cookie-cutter clouds in the morning sky.

Of mother's fine China,

dried lotion,

hand soap.

Pristine as she is,

his fiancee

-a pale violet-

an imposter.

I left them unpicked

with half-a-dozen unfocused pictures,

the petals cry dew drop tears.

Stinging-

blurring the crack

on her flawed porcelain face.