I live a life collecting pieces.
Pieces of fantasies forever the
realm of
childhood;
Pieces of imaginations turned wild and wonderful.
Pieces of laughter, confusion, delight and tears.
Pieces of melancholy, shards of sorrow;
fragments of regret, portions of jealousy.
Sections of desire, passion, leading us on
blindly to others of
heartache and yearning.
The rough edges of frustration, yet the
smooth curves of contentment, peace.
I live a life collecting pieces;
this is what I’m told makes a life worthy.
Worthy of remembrance, joy; fulfilment.
But only I can see the struggles,
feel my bones bearing more weight;
the aching tiredness I fall into,
when I’m not at work,
collecting the pieces I speak of.
The fright I hastily pick up off the ground,
when I compare my clumsy, ***** array of
pieces to your perfect and bound ones;
when you aren’t looking.
The dread I reach for, because you leave it crushed
beneath your feet.
The nervous tension pulling strings beneath my skin;
leaving me a reckless, vulnerable puppet
collecting the pieces left in your wake.
Torn to scattered, dusty pieces;
Reborn a puzzle of simplicities,
bright and shining pieces woven into form.
No matter where we have been, where we
were taken,
where we were loved,
where we were betrayed,
where we fought bravely,
where we surrendered nobly,
where we were embittered,
where we learnt of strengths and weaknesses;
we are all made of pieces.
We are collections of pieces.
You and I.
Our collection is known as life;
each piece is our experience of something.
Someone.
Somewhere.
And the more we know each other, the more
often our hands can reach for two of the same,
available pieces left before us.
I pen them down, keep them special and fragrant.
I live a life collecting pieces
and often they are of you.