These things are alike:
Fallen leaves,
yesterday’s paper,
the morning’s tea bag still in its mug,
and a grieving heart.
Stale, forgotten, set aside;
Yet so fragile,
so prone to crunch at the slightest touch.
But when is a touch just a touch?
It is always longer, clumsier, and more cruel than you think.
With a grieving heart,
you only graze, slip, and smudge.
Does a typist imagine himself a potter?
Yet you think you can feel your way around a bruised soul.
A word, a look, a touch:
Listen close and you will hear
Crunch, crunch, crunch.
He is scratching at his elbow
at the itch upon his heart.
