Broken glass lies on the desktop,
Stained from blue and black ink,
Left to run out of the pens.
With a steady hand, pieces are lifted,
Placed into the corners, sides, middle
Of a faded wooden frame.
I am piecing a mosaic together
Of a body that seems whole.
The look of a girl who doesn’t know what if feels like
To be run over a hundred times.
The girl in the picture was never meant to
Look like me, or him, or you.
But she has two eyes and ears,
A mouth and nose,
And in that sense she is more alike us as individuals
Than what we claim to be together.
Tell me, if the coffee starts to turn back to grinds
And the hair of the girl in the mosaic turns grey,
Does this mean I am ageing?
Or is it the effect of the years I have been forced to address,
Stuck on a loop
Like old home videos.
Memories replaying,
Like the sounds of a loved one’s voice.
Over and over I must look at the clock,
My watch,
A lamplight,
To remind myself,
Of the true age that binds me.