Thermal Shock

[Verse 1]
The blue cornflower on the Corning Ware dish is off-center by a hairline.
She traces the pyroceram glaze with a cold fingertip, a slow incline.
A Tuesday in late July, the kitchen air hums a low isobar.
She catalogues the ghost of every single casserole from that specific car.

[Chorus]
It's the thermal shock, a clean fracture line.
Nothing prepares the structure for that kind of design.

[Verse 2]
The scorch mark near the rim feels like a thumbprint he left behind.
A known defect, a cartography of a different kind.
She measures the negative space on the shelf where it used to fit.
A quiet cantilever, the heaviest part of it.

[Interlude]
(Spoken word, a different voice, distant and warm, as if from a voicemail)
"Hey, it's me. Don't forget the foil. The good kind, not the thin stuff. Okay, bye."

[Bridge]
No blueprint ever shows you the critical breaking point.
Just the load, and the span, and the joint.

[Chorus]
It's the thermal shock, a clean fracture line.
Nothing prepares the structure for that kind of design.

[Outro]
A hairline crack.
A clean line.