what you loved

was all in shambles,

and then you came along

with the tape and the string,

and made a collage of

all the bitter pieces.

 

you took a tragic,

broken little mess,

and created something

that was beautiful simply

because it was whole again.

 

and it wasn’t because

of your deft fingers

or your calculating heart

(that cared enough

to take a dust pan in hand

and make love

to the chaos);

 

it was because

of the simpleness

that the disorder

found its quiet.