And as if a vase of wilting flowers fell off a table, We shattered. Each push shoving us closer to the edge Until we finally toppled over; 3, 2, 1, Impact. The shards of what was, what is, and what should have been Cut wounds into my fingertips As I tried to pick them up And piece them back together. But when the jagged, mangled pieces would no longer fit in their places Or form what they once were, I instead placed them like a painting on my wall, To be looked at, and remembered; Not to be thrown in the garbage, But not to become what they used to be, either.