pieces

I can hold you in my hand,

A puzzle, a piece,

Pieces of an us, a we, a me,

And there's no manual, no one way to make this work, to fit, my edges with your corners, sides with spaces:

First comes the error –

We'll argue over the spilt milk, or liquor, or the coffee that's stained the rug that isn't ours,

The cold nights in Winter when the feathers are down and the bed once Tropical is now the Artic, when all I want to feel is your heat but the radiators must be broken,

And then there's the silence of the blue tick, the last seen but no words spoken, messages left unanswered and days culminating into weeks and you acting like nothing has changed, even when distance has turned this heart frostier.

And then comes the trial –

The click,
the clack,
the salvaging the shards of the fight last night to form that apology, that awkward smile,
laugh,
kiss,
when we realise we're still mulling over the little things, the silly things, the pieces of another puzzle that don't fit into ours –

pieces

The sighs,
the surprise,
when you realise the bed's warmer on my side as you turn over and hold me,
touch me,
become me,
and hell, maybe some nights I can be the big spoon,

And the snap
when you realise I'm a little too far out of reach, when that distance has become a space mission and you're no astronaut.

It's the I'm sorry,

I'll do better.

And you do.

And I will too.

And it's not perfect, not yet, this puzzle still isn't complete.

I'm still finding pieces, falling to pieces, forming pieces, in my hand, my mind, my self,

And you, you're still you, I'm malleable in your hands,

And when we're wrong, we're a colossal mistake, so fundamentally and irrevocably incorrect that it doesn't make any sense,

But God, when we're right, and so often we are, it's a kaleidoscope of colour, a distortion of light, a supernova eclipsing the darkest of nights –

It's an us, a we, a you,

A me.

And we're still figuring it out.