Within shadow’s ubiquitous longings,
my life’s mosaic shards rattle
like bones in a leather cup.
Each move’s coupled to regret,
a chain forged in doubt’s certainty
fixed tight to all my corners.
I lie broken in a crevasse,
a fissure torn through my heart,
like love letters casually discarded,
or the dust of dried flowers
that tremble from the pages
of a book I gave her years ago.
Nothing remains of the nothing there;
there were no pieces to go missing.
(July 10, 2015)
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