Broken bottle, I see you.
I left home this morning,
desperate to clear my mind,
but instead I saw you,
forgotten yet ever-present.
You were on a bridge,
sun beating down on your films and edges.
I swear you were colorless,
but all-powerful, effortlessly refracting light;
at times burning
living things that dared cross your path,
at times revealing the technicolor
that fuels all the world’s beauty.
Step by step, I meant to forget
my woes when I left home.
Step by step, an invisible thread guided me to you.
I failed to notice you at first,
until I harmed you.
The crunching of your bits alerted me.
I first thought I stepped on a shrew,
maybe a handful of pebbles, but
how wrong I was. I looked
down to assess the damage to my shoe.
Excuse me for not thinking of you.
Thinking no damage was done,
I immediately noticed you,
bleeding, resting, waiting.
Your label looked
partially scratched off,
the remaining ink and paper discolored and diffused,
your identity intentionally erased.
Broken bottle, I noticed your edges and lines,
thinking those had been there
from the dawn of time,
from the moment you came to existence,
whether you knew it or not. These edges and lines,
finally revealed to yourself and others
by tragedy or celebration, conflict or necessity.
These sharp adornments,
endowed with the ability to cut
and puncture–they aren’t yours anymore.
Perhaps they never were.
I wondered what you held.
I dared not taste it.
I wondered what you went through.
I dared not imagine it.
I wondered who made you, but it never mattered.
You were there and so was I.
You’re still with me,
long after someone, something,
or nothing at all,
disposed of you.