I’m a folded
piece of paper 
maybe a fortune 
cookie and a
bottle afloat in 
the sea too
a receipt tucked 
away inside of 
a book a
leaf pressed between 
pages I’m not 
obvious but hidden 
there for but
the eyes of
the one who 
put me there 

Is it
hubris or
humility which 
cuts to 
the core
for both 
it seems 
are the 
same edge 
of a
sharp sword 
slicing through 
another’s bravado 

I think dust
is the debris
of dreams that 
we exhale in
our sleep knowing 
that things such
as these need
to land somewhere

And like ice
I guess cubed
crushed or crawling 
it dissolves mixes
in with whatever 
it chilled cheapened 
or changed it
goes gets or
gives turning into 
the very same 

The hole that’s left
isn’t actually what hurts
that part is numb
it is the standing 
on the lip of
the crater and looking
at what once was
and where’d it go 
that does nobody ever 
sees a comet coming 
all that anyone sees
is the debris field
left once it’s gone