You walk around with this void.
An empty section of you where something once fit, once belonged.
And no matter how many squares,
triangles and cylinders you try to place there,
it will not fit.
So you twist it,
heat it up, and cool it down,
make a few dents and scratches –
but it never comes close.
But you hold on to it anyway. Like that pair of jeans who’s zipper won’t go all the way up,
thinking someday the piece will fit.
Someday you won’t have to try so hard to force the piece in, someday it’ll just fall in and click.
Then you’ll stand taller, stronger,
because you knew what piece was missing all along.
You just couldn’t open your eyes to it, couldn’t render all the colors fair.
And when the void ceases to be, you’ll lie softly in white, I think,
and marry yourself to the ground.
It’s been a long time learning what you already knew.