patching up the pieces
left me scattered on the bridge
follow me home
somewhere there is a trail of puzzle pieces,
those pieces
i need time to let me believe in something whole,
the picture being complete again.
One smiling grin in black and white,
it is familiar to me.
on the ground surrounded by drunk immigrants.
40's, shopping carts.
My smile being stepped on,
literally laying on the ground in a puzzle piece.
Figuratively speaking, always being patched up,
picked apart
each piece pulling painfully at my skin,
my wounds are fresh,
I remember yesterday with every step across the bridge.