There were crumbs on the plate, more than crumbs. I threw them away. The nail varnish on my toes is chipped; the wild violet is now a bruise. The mirror has been half-cleaned and looks like a distorted image of itself. I snipped off the bottoms of my loose slacks since it is so warm in here and did not hem the edges; threads hang loose like roots of trees dried and dying. The shelf has been half dusted, so the glass reflects the pieces on them differently – the ceramic poses beautifully and the fisherman in wood appears to be looking for catch in some desert. The paper flies. I rush to catch it, thinking that I might lose my thoughts along with it. I grip it like a seasoned pro and I look at its scrunched, hunched form and straighten it. It is blank. A blank sheet flew away from the many pages I keep. The words were there enclosed in other pages. Like cages they seemed now when I thought about this blank sheet that flew and got scrunched in my palm and meant so much.
Fragments mean a lot…I do not want completion, I do not want closure. I want bricks to show through walls to know how they got built. I want the pauses to finish my sentences and half-open eyes to dream real tears.
I want to remain unfinished.