by Chris Butler
Every time my heart breaks, a few pieces go missing:
between the couch cushions, under the oriental rug, cuddling a dust bunny in the vacuum’s belly, inside of my shoe’s soul, hiding in my other pocket, locked in the vegetable crisper, buried beneath the egg shells and coffee grounds in the trash and around the lost and found.
Every time my heart breaks, I can’t find them all.
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