Broken Cigars

I've begun to appreciate the breaks
in the
sidewalk
and the cracks in the wall.

The walls stained brown from history's gaze.

But it's the little things
like the heavy door
that creaks when ajar
or the twisted metal that
accompanies me to bed.

Or the memories
that float on the wind
and through my window
at night
sometimes waking me in
wonder
sometimes waking me in fright.

I'll miss the patterns that
melted in the backgrounds
of little details left
unnoticed.
Like the dust on the
mirror
and the echoes I sometimes hear.

Or the wood stained by ghostly hands.

It captures me, the little things
like the rocks
that split my feet
or the glass that bites at my frozen hands.

The silent piano that died by the shuttered window.

The bro-
ken cigars on the floor
that leave my stomach tangled
are finally swept in a corner. 

Or the bells that chime
in the middle of the night
assuring me life is out there.
Waiting.

I've begun to appreciate the breaks
in the side walk,
and the cracks in the wall.

I'll miss
home.