Stitching Broken Pieces of a Life at 4am

(1)
Years from now, you will see me as we cross the street. I shall be standing in the middle of the traffic, looking everywhere except at you. You will try to catch my eye. I shall brush away something (a tear? a piece of dirt? a memory?) from the corner of my vision, as if trying to get rid of a shadow.

(2)
Sometimes I wish am not made of glass.

(3) Sometimes, I wish I could stop hurting over you.

(4)
In the end, we are all broken dolls merely stitched back together. I can still see the faint gleam of a seam running across my breast, just above my heart.

(5)
It seems so odd, sifting through these fragments of stories as if they were all pieces of a grand novel. I can’t seem to place them together, as if the edges don’t quite want to fit. Did we really meet? Marry? Live together briefly with our two beautiful boys?

Sometimes, I wonder. Did we have that life together or was it all a dream?