Pieces

 

Dust. That is all you are now. You see the pieces of your identity falling with every sunrise, and with every dusk. The incompleteness you feel does not let you see forward, always clamping you to your past. 

Yesterday feels like your friend, even though it wasn't graceful as you remember it. But all you see looking back is how intact you were, how whole you were. No part of you was taken. 

If only you knew that time is not the enemy. If only you knew that it is natural to lose pieces when a sculptor craves his sculpture. If only you knew that the very thing that is breaking you is giving you shape, making you presentable. He craves, models, and assembles. You are his work of art.