You Are Free To Go, But You Must Take The Pieces With You

You are free
to go.
There is no one guarding the door,
keeping you prisoner,
preventing you
from going.
Go, if you want.
I will not
stop you.
I can’t.

If you go,
you must take the pieces
with you.
The pieces of our life
together —
the scraps,
the faded memories,
the beautiful moments
and the broken ones.

I will not be the one to clean them up.

You must take the pieces
and, if you do,
I hope you look at them,
each and every one.

I hope you see them
for what they are:
little miracles,
evidence that two hearts
can meld into a single,
steady beat
and continue beating
even if they’re split
someday down the line.

Take the pieces
and hold them up to the light.
Look how they shine,
how the whole world can change color
by viewing it through their lens.
Remember what it was like
to see rose-tinted
and everything seemed to be blooming.

You are free
to go
but before you take the pieces,
look at what we built
before we break it.

We have built mountains
monuments
meteors.

What we have built
is worth
at least
a second look.

I may feel like
a desperate grab,
porcelain falling from a shelf,
but porcelain is precious for a reason.

Because I don’t want you
to take the pieces
when you go.

You are free
to go
but instead of pieces
I want wholes,
worlds and completes
and absolutes.

I want you to stay
and build more meteors with me
until the universe can see
how bright we burn
even in the black depths of space.

So stay
even though,
in pieces,
I have set you free.