The Missing Pieces Speak

The Missing Pieces Speak

Half a face, and still it breathes,

still it tries to remember its own shape,

lines trembling where the edges break,

as if the skin itself is unsure.

The cracks do not scream, they whisper,

quiet fractures that travel inward,

searching for something that was never placed,

something that should have completed the whole.

Pieces wait, patient as grief,

scattered in places we refuse to look,

under old words, behind closed thoughts,

buried in moments we chose to forget.

And yet the eye remains, steady,

watching the spaces where nothing fits,

learning to live with absence,

learning to see through the gaps.

A wing brushes against the silence,

light and fragile against the break,

a reminder that not all things

are meant to be forced back together.

Some parts leave because they must,

some pieces fall to teach us

that we are not puzzles to be solved,

but stories still being written.

Still, the longing lingers,

a quiet ache behind the calm,

a question that never quite fades,

what would I be if I were whole?

But maybe the truth is this,

wholeness is not a return,

it is the courage to stand incomplete,

and still call yourself enough.

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