we are little fragments glued together
bounding on our merry way
colliding and contriving
unraveling apart into piles on the ground
she kneels next to me
helping my scraps reassemble
temporarily
until the next gust of wind
or a different fragmented creation
breaks me apart
again and again
brokenness comes from the gut
abs contract as we release
bits of water and snot
she is aging and yet much more beautiful that I
she cries, yet I rarely see it
if she becomes uncollected in front of me
what will I do?
the woman who shares my face
will I know how to help her put herself back together?
sometimes I fear a broom will come
and sweep our parts into a pan
and we shall stay in our broken state
sobbing and screaming
never able to stand up again
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