There’s a ripe apple on the counter
With browns along the rims of the smile
That you curved with the broken toothpick.
There’s a box in pink on the black desk
Filled with pencil shavings
Beside the photo frame
Made of painted eggshells.
There’s a yellow t-shirt in your cupboard
That you’ve successfully smuggled thrice
From the pile of clothes I folded to give away;
I told you it’s faded,
You painted it ombre.
Your room’s a junkyard
Of hidden shards
And tapped pieces.
But in those eyes
Are dreams that shine
Through cracked windows,
Pumping in your little fingers
That create beauty out of the broken.