The box.

I wish it was anger or ignorance. 

Some simple flesh wound that I could understand.

Something that I could for once believe.

Something to just once trust. 

I long to smile at strangers again and tell them 

the generic "good" that was in my day at that moment and actually mean it.

Right now my efforts haven't gotten me there yet. 

But I need the promise that they will.

Something solid that tells me that eventually, 

this will end. 

This used to be a person. 

It was sweet at times, 

bitter at others. 

It was always acceptable when he didn't understand what was wrong

because I always had the unwavering belief that I could talk it out.

That what I said would matter because he had unwavering care that I underestimated.

We were both wrong. 

But I don't believe that anyone is particularly right. 

Humans are puzzle pieces that are not meant to fit together. 

As a species, we are to lie adjacent to each other

and sleep happily amongst the sea of other mixed bits.

I'm sure when an outside force juggles the box, 

another pair will find each other. 

Maybe an outside force will move the box once more, 

and we'll lie against each other again. 

Or perhaps I will find a new piece altogether,

for a new picture entirely. 

Just as beautiful,

but with a bit of coffee spilled onto the outer corners

that I embrace openly. 

But what will most likely happen, 

is that I will lie alone for a long time from now,

and speckles of dust will collect themselves into eternal, unique flakes, 

atop the box, 

awaiting their next bus ride through the slight wind passing by. 

and a gust of wind ever so strong enough

will pull me toward the piece that I am not tailored to, 

but that I am good enough for, and he is me. 

So many tiny pieces become the passers by and so am I.

There is a purpose to this, 

but I'm no longer sure if I need to search for it anymore.

There is no logic to this random selection.

The pairings no longer need to make any sense because 

everything ends.

Mayhap another piece need not be the cause of my repair. 

Mayhap I need to brush off my dulled edges,

somehow dry the hot coffee from my corners,

and let the light from the ripped corner of the box in.

Perhaps being seen by the rest of the world isn't 

as perilous as I once thought. 

Maybe the "letting go" that I've been dreading for so long

shouldn't be so feared anymore.

Human Dignity + Compassion = Peace.