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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Nothing is ever fully put together

Submitted: April 07, 2013

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Submitted: April 07, 2013




My mom and I
Used to do puzzles together
And we’d spend hours
Trying to find
Which piece
(Out of the 999 other pieces)
Would fit with the one
In my hand.

It’s kind of like the way that
Out of all of the hundreds
Of hands that I’ve held,
Yours fit the best
With mine.

Your slender fingers
Fit perfectly in between mine
And your fingertips
Found their long lost homes
In the dips between my knuckles.
I clung to you 
like a vine on the side of a house.

(And, for a while,
You held me up
To the sun
And I was radiant)

But your walls weren’t so sturdy. 
You crumbled. 
I fell. 
And the only thing left
Of us 
Was a pile of dust and dried out leaves.

My mom always told me
That my eyes were the
Color of winter leaves
And her arm
Always made the perfect fit
For my shuddering back.

And I always noticed that
She would be shedding
Her own secret tears
And they mixed with mine
Into tiny clear roses
On the white tile floor.

If we were puzzles,
We’d all be missing pieces.

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