There is a pulse
(Poorly drawn)
To a puzzle
I have yet to find the pieces for.

Every wince
Shrugged sets of shoulders,
Sand matted character
(Particles)
Just seem to fall away.

I am that hourglass
Withering
As I can only keep
The left collected in my palms
(I have such small hands)

Overdrawn
Mending broken eggshells
Harboring droplets
Of watered down hope
Inside them all
(I keep losing pieces)

Abrupt decay
Survived by
Formaldehyde rain clouds
And sudden implosions
Of self control.

I’m whirling tiptoes
To stop bags from breaking
This stride business
(Cares not for me)

Big battered grins
On my wall
Grind back at me
Flaking away dreams
Forged in every chip.

I’ve constructed
Those sunk in glances
Caressed the texture
On paper
I’ve become them
(Pressed to bone)

I have made them
Through thousands of intentions
Conversations bending
Sleepless nights.

Been lost in the cheapness
Of a million words farther
Then I could ever run
With clenched toes and desperate consent

There are so many pieces hidden away
To this
A dedicated euphoria
Of trash.
(How I’ve committed myself to it)

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