There went the needle
to the floor.
I heard it.
It’s every beat of percussion as it
Tapped
Tapped
Tapped
On my doorstep.
You looked at it in confusion.
Masked with the
uncertainty
of where to go, you didn’t hear it.
You barely saw it.
It slipped
through your fingers,
Unnoticed.
I'll cared for.
You held it once, but now
it’s gone from you.
Standing there.
Silent.
Tears rolling,
hands trembling,
mind reeling.
Do you even pick it up?
Can you even find it?
Where is it?
No.
You knew you had it once.
You acted careless.
Pricking yourself.
Holding it loose
and fast.
You dropped it.
And I.
I watched.
I listened.
Seeing that needle break skin.
Time and
time
again.
It broke you.
It broke you, until
you
broke
it.
When it dropped, it snapped
in two.
Torn between head
and foot.
Torn between up
and down.
Torn between the life it once knew
and the life it must now be forced to live.
Torn.
The percussion of
each
touch
makes music on the ground, and
they echo.
Echoing loudly
and freely.
Freely flowing like the
tears down your cheeks.
They are not torn.
The tears roll, even as the percussion stops.
Healing grows in the silence,
You are healing.
With no more needle.
That needle
is broken.
There is
no
thread
attached.
It cannot stitch you up.
I am still here.
Healing hands
held open.
Awaiting.