Quiet sunday

The glass smashes
against the dark
floorboards like a transparent
firework.

she sinks to the ground, becomes immobile,
staring vainly at the
shattered mess
as though recalling
an old friend.

stirring her fingers
through a sea of
speckled light, one jagged
jewel snatches at her
palm,
so she traps it in her hand like
a whisper in a cemetery.

2pm
Sunday sunlight
creeps around to
steal the scattered stars, but something
breathes inside the
girl who shivers when the day
is warm.

something opens up.

my old friend
sits in a puddle of broken glass, and
she remembers
and she says to me:

“my blood has never looked this beautiful.”