Leftover Pieces

Empty rooms.
Shadows. Echoes.
Bits of debris.
Leftover pieces.
Things that didn’t
fit neatly into
the romantic
reconfiguring.
But really, now,
years removed
and hundreds
of miles distant,
isn’t it those
little, unimportant
things that left
the biggest holes
in the heart
by being left
behind?

Move along.
Forget. Rebuild.
That’s what they say.
Live in Here and Now.
Don’t go digging,
scaring up old ghosts
that might best be
immaterial.
But really, now,
does anything
ever truly
stay in the past;
isn’t it there,
lingering and potent,
just waiting
to rip fresh gaps
in that bright,
shiny and new
facade?

I am. Am I.
Shallow. Plastic.
Sheet in the wind.
Build to survive it.
The thing that breathed
and looked to the stars
and saw pinpricks
in reality.
But really, now,
isn’t this
odd moment
just a painful,
mad realization
that I am
the biggest piece
of wretched
and forgotten
debris?

Empty words.
Mirrored cadence.
Bits of cliché.
Leftover rhythm.
Emotions that
can’t be tucked away,
that keep bubbling
up to the surface.
But really, now,
we all know
what this is;
a hot remorse
for the crime of living
when so much
has gone before
into those
deep, bitter depths
of memory.

12 Jan 2009

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