broken pieces

We all fall apart sometimes. We get sad, we get frustrated, we get discouraged. It just takes the right person to help pick up the pieces in order to become whole again.

When you first walked through the black frame of my front door carrying your perfectly sculpted vase, I found myself captivated by the way you talked about the things you loved. Your eyes spoke of thoughts and ideas that were magnificent, and I would listen earnestly to every word that left your lips. You would speak vividly of your daydreams with a passion that could lighten up any darkness.

Shortly after, your vase slipped through your hands and shattered into millions of pieces. I bent down on my knees and was right by your side picking them up. We swept up all of the pieces we could find, but we would always come across little shards of vase every now and then. When we would stumble upon a jagged edge, it would leave a scar across our gentle skin. Those scars just made us stronger and stronger. They marked struggles that proved we were there to heal each other.

Your exhausted, worn out eyes saw me as enticing because I was supportive. When the misery destroyed you and consumed you, I would listen as you painfully reminisced on the memories. You needed the distraction and that was exactly what I was going to be. I hoped that one day there would not be any broken pieces left, and you would be able to walk across the tiles without having to worry about cutting yourself. I saw promise in you and knew that you could accomplish wondrous things if you could only get past the splintered pieces that hurt you in the first place.

Although our story was messy, we both had our happily ever afters.