ecrivaine

Clearly, I've been writing poetry, this one is quite different than normal:

The way the cracked glass fell sideways on her head
Made him think about gunshots shooting violence, at harmless coke bottles
And then he thought of green grass, cut short
By the overbearing gnashing of engines and metal blades
Of the sweet, clean smell
And the way the season stained his shoes green.

She rubbed her head while she gathered petals of glass
But one clear flower got lost in the bouquet,
skidding over her fingers, it broke into a mosaic of lost ideas
A single red drop fell
Her hand in her mouth, muttering, still rubbing the lump that was growing, she moved to the kitchen
She let her hand slide into the slick cold water and hang
Going numb
She looked at him and said, its not my day
But he still remembered when it was:
The dress, ivory, because her mother insisted,
The calculated stress that overtook them both,
Her skin, delicate menagerie, as he held her hands within his; and the smile
That had so long evaded this house.

Scratching glass against the hardwood accosted his reverie.
She was sweeping up his promises, cleaning up the mess he left.
For he stood that glass upon the shelf where her mothers heirlooms lived.
And it was because of him it faltered.