Broken

We've long been broken. Our words are delicately curled wisps of breath, spit out across thin ice and afraid.

Or we don't talk at all.

Once we were hooked elbows and laughter through city streets - and our words were power. Fire. And we sat in smoke and watched them burn. We drove miles for good jazz. We dreamt poetry, theater, music, travel.

Now, we no longer exist, though his fingerprints remain on my heart.

I broke us. In a moment. In a week of moments. A month. In the time it took for his hand to hold mine, I dropped my dearest friend and sent cracks through our smoothness, our shell. Killed what was inside.

Years have passed. Lifetimes. I've learned to find the beauty in brokenness. That the shattering of a shell, brings forth life. That the cracking of ice, signals the coursing of life pushing below. I've found beauty in broken glass; the shards curve sunlight differently, sending it shooting in new angles. I've found beauty in weathered relationships - that friendship is meant to ebb and flow, and that life is meant to be filled with both the present spectacular and the ashes of our past.

But the rubble of our friendship remains constant. A pile of smooth stones, I can run my hands over and smile. Moments of us. I've yet to piece these remnants into something as good as the original.