Our morality and our passion was broken glass we spent our days trying to knit back together. As we rearranged it in a numerous number of ways with blood on our fingers we occasionally caught sight of who we thought we were in our temporary reflection. We didn’t know if it was us who we saw staring back at us in our disjointed glass puzzle or reflections or an error of desire.
All our idolatries have packed their bags and left this morning. Is the sympathy of tears and reciprocal recognition of each other’s bad times all we have left now? In the glass puzzle of your voice, of your tone, of your words, of your passions stencilled on your emotions I see the conjoined heaven and hell of everything you are and can’t be. The cracks between the glass are both the joins and the gaps between the promise and the jovial screams against your own reality and I don’t mind at all.
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