The Lucid Echo of Enamel

On the hardened enamel,
the form is not a memory,
but the broken sheen,
a shiver of absorbed time.
Every scratch a trace,
every bubble a breath that was,
not the voice but its garment,
that the light projects down.

It is no history read, nor plot,
but the reflection that falls silent and yields,
the caress of fingers, the flame
of a gaze that still sees it.
It is the silence of a completed gesture,
the wrinkle of the passing instant,
on the garment of a mute moment,
its lucid, fragile mass.