there were good parts of us.
of you.
i will always be the first
to admit that.
and sometimes,
i find myself picking through our memories
like old antiques you find in your grandparents’ basement.
sometimes, i blow off the dust on the day we met,
or the first time we kissed.
i wipe the dirt from the moment i realized
that i was in love with you,
and the first time i said it out loud.
i flip through our best times
like old photo albums,
listen to your laughter
like it’s a dusty vinyl record.
but i always end up sitting in front of
the chipped china plates in the corner.
the broken picture frames lining the shelves;
our first fight, the first promise broken,
and then lie, after lie, after lie.
crack, after crack, after crack.
i come back to the broken parts
of us because i am not ready
to acknowledge the good parts
by themselves.
i can’t trust myself to not stare
at the shiny pieces for too long,
to not forget about the chips and cracks
on the other side of the room.
one day, i won’t need to hold
all our shattered pieces in my hand
to know that they’re there,
that they aren’t going away.
one day, i will be able to
put the record of your laugh on play
without being afraid of forgetting
how that laugh also broke my heart.
one day, i will be able to sit there,
and just listen.
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