and it's broken. Like tiles on a kitchen floor
worn and tired, they give way
under the weight of nothing;
fragile like glass that cuts
so deep. Blood is drawn, under
the weight of emotions
that run unbeknownst to
you and me. And then
it mends itself, in the hand
and in the heart like a
miracle which judges not by the past
but what is had now, hopefully
better than what was
and better than what would ever be.
No comments:
Post a Comment