is what he gave. Crumbs of
cake, ice shaved. Bits
and pieces are all he
conjured. Can you fault a girl

if she wandered? Odds and
ends thrown in a drawer. So many
times she walked out the door, to
only crawl back and beg

for more. Bric-a-brac placed
on the shelves. These are things
in themselves. A smidgen here,
a smidgen there. That is all

he had to share. Is she just a speck,
flecks of lint brushed off in the wave of
his hand? A grain of sand on the
shore? Sebum sitting in his pore?