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There is a picture on our wall framed black

With two children standing on a stone path, me and my brother,

We walk around and around the circle.

He leaves a trail of shards behind him

and I follow after, picking up his pieces,

scurrying for every glassy fragment

then holding it tightly and lovingly,

always protecting the parts of him he lets me hold.

Every piece I pick up makes one of mine slip

from fingers so full of someone else.

They are the pieces that clink sweetly on the wind chime outside

And the ones that hung on the mobile over our crib,

shining and reflecting the great world around us,

as glossy as our big open child eyes.

The shards are in the light cut by shadows

on his face in the morning

when he forgets he doesn't like hugs.

How strange is it

To know the person next to you

is the only one who understands 

the feverish joy in holding parts of someone else.

We will forever walk on that circular path

picking up each other's soul pieces.




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