Jigsaw falling into place.
It was a trick, of course, a fluke of the weak sun magnified through the thick glass.
And yet my heart leapt.
Sometimes, I am afraid.
That this is all there is.
Ironically, a very heavy Nothing.
One day I wrote on a piece of paper,
"If he broke her, where would the pieces fly?"
And it felt fatalistic, the way a good phrase can feel.
I could not know it was a borrowed presentiment, a foreboding.
That a million pieces later, I still don't know where they went.
So many of them are missing.
I wish I would not shatter others only because I am fragmented.
And that the jigsaw will eventually fall into place.
Maybe not like before, but in this new space that is me.
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