Cracked Windows

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,

And magic

Pumping in your little fingers

That create beauty out of the broken.

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