Pieces of We

I hold your heart in my hands, and it is my own.

A broken thing, fragmented and beautiful.

A fiercely delicate, dangerously sharp work of art.

It is an exquisite glass sculpture.

A rich jewel of life and goodness and truth.

It has been dropped and stepped on until it's all jagged edges and wicked angles and shards of sweetest, painful love.

It is my own heart of broken window panes and broken window pains.

Damaged and flawed, shattered shards scintillating and shining, startlingly standing against holes and gaps of incompletion.

Fill those empty spaces in me. Let me take your pieces, those prickly, piercing, personal pieces, pristinely painful-pure.

Let them perforate me perfectly.

Push the pieces into place.

I will take the bits of your beauty and pain, I will clutch them in fingers desperate and shaking and let them cut me until my hands become steady-sure.

I will let the shards of you into my skin, because they are too beautiful to belong anywhere else.

Come fill my empty spaces. Let your sharp edges slide against the jagged creases of my soul until they find a seam that matches.

Put our shattered hearts together, until the pieces of me are pieces of we.