Pieces

How many times will I lose us?

Each fracturing splinters the whole

each pick up yields fewer pieces.

Fitting the jagged edges together through

clouded eyes

takes longer and longer and the

result lacks the sharp clarity

with which we first began.

Pieces

growing slippery with the

what? -tears? blood? bile?

maybe all at once,

(perhaps just regret

that no longer remains

swallowed

along with the self-loathing

I'd hoped had passed through me)

makes each rebuild less sure than the

one before it.

Perhaps I'd better put it down.

Maybe I should place us on a shelf

along with those precious things that

I

Can't

Let

Go

and just walk away

lest the next break is the

last.