might have beens,
lay scattered.
I stand,
my hands
still supplicant,
staring at
the kitchen tile,
knowing
the tiniest pieces
will never be swept up,
thrown away.
I will step on them,
reminded of you,
for years to come.
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Oh yes, those tiny pieces find the nubile flesh of your foot at the worst times.
ReplyDeleteThis was just beautiful and achingly true.
The past can never be erased but will prick as shards. Reality.
ReplyDeleteWhat a great angle you picked!
ReplyDeleteNice layers in this. That image of the supplicant hands especially stood out for me.
ReplyDelete