I imagine losing a child is like breaking a porcelain vase. 

                       The pieces of its once sculpted body scattered everywhere,

 Lost,

               outside of

                                         time and                 

          reality.

                          Thoughts, dreams and everything in

                                       t i n y  f r a g m e n t s

 Perhaps I’ve experienced this feeling, or maybe seen the tragedy of an unborn symphony, a dream, a hope, a life–me.  

 Perhaps, it was when dark amber orbs were lazily mirrored through sapphire glass, smiling through the pain, with dark berry lipstick and spritz of golden mist.

Sandwiched in between the innocence of the ideal dreams and reality, 

I asked myself ‘if I could be a child again’ again and again.

It was funny.

Sad                          Time was running, slowly slipping away and dripping in between my fingers.

 It  seemed like time had passed while I hadn't gotten the chance to enjoy being a child. Being free to cry, make mistakes, express.

 Perhaps, I’ve been overthinking a bit, or maybe I’ve never considered how ungrateful I’ve become. Every second, choosing between the responsibilities of an adult and the ignorance of a child, Laundering between   two worlds– I could pretend,  never facing the consequences. 

                            But I’ve been far more aware of them for too long.

         The lost pieces of myself, my child, broken and shattered. 

                 Have I pieced her together?

                           Did I have the right too?

                                     I abandoned her too long ago, packing her emotions and vulnerability, disappearing without saying goodbye.