Pieces

There are so many pieces scattered on the floor.
Once upon a time, so neatly arranged on the table

boarder,
interior,
corner.

So many pieces, none exactly alike,
one, two, three, four... one hundred twenty-four.

There are so many marbles,
clutched in my hands.
Once upon a time, tucked safely into a blue velvet sac.

On Tuesday, I dropped one or two.
On Friday, I retraced my steps.
And on Saturday, I'm missing another and by Sunday another.

Three, four, five, left I've only one cat's eye.

There are so many steps.
Assembling this Scandinavian
book shelf.

The picture laid out page by page.

One, two, three... step ninety-nine.
It's too bad, I just don't see flat
drawings, dimensionally.

I kiss you,
on a cold winter's day.
As you walk down the Boulevard,
some pieces of me are never coming back.
And neither are you.

Form

Then there are the bits left behind, the small pieces,
the flecks.
The particles that the naked eye
will never see.

Like fingerprints,
they are seeable,
but most certainly no--
almost always, they are unseen.

And yet-- They are there.

Being seen does not make them real.

They are real, those bits.
Having a form or a shape, makes
them corporal and perhaps real.

And yet--

those invisible things,
they often embody,
the weightiest--
the heaviest of things.

**

The words left unsaid
hang like a noose,
loose

They float there – heavy--
weighting me down.
Sinking slowly.
Quicksand.

The words said,
fuzzy like champagne,
shimmer,
they rise – light
floating--
setting me free.

I can't explain it.
I'm not even sure I want to try.

It's not like it hurts or
it's painful. Or that it's particularly noticeable.
But it's just true.
Real.
There are pieces of me and pieces of you.

Like paper lanterns on a calm stream or
building blocks-- stacked, floating--

rearranged with purpose, or bobbed about
by a current...

rearranged every time we
talk,
touch.

I know these bits and pieces are real,
when I open my arms,
my eyes,
my mind,
my heart.