SPLIT

My bones are stones

Weighted in distances

Incomprehensible

Scattered from the cliff face mass

Of origins

No one can collect me

Although parts stand in ornamental jars

On windowsills and shelves

Of those who felt some

Indescribable attachment to the shape

The sea-scaped smoothness

How my fragments

Have become their own.

I was never intended for wholeness-

But for this lonely comfort

Of being settled on a distant shore

Whilst being hoarded in a parent’s house.

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