Glass figurines and teacups,
china dolls and painted plates,
I’ll pile them all in your hands,
and like a child,
         I will wait-

I’ll wait for you to break them,
but I’ll pray they don’t shatter-
if the pieces hit the ground hard,
they’ll slice through
        my gray matter,

and then I won’t comprehend
what is left of me at all,
beyond pieces left of trinkets
and the man
        who could not fall.


Darling, I hate to say this,
but I swear you must be blind
if you can’t see how much I hang
on each word
        that you design

and ship off and send my way
and the rest that you forget
and I am constantly a wreck
of what you
       have not said quite yet.