Sitting on the edge of a chair looking down a hole
in
the
kitchen
floor.
Looking for the piece of my heart
that seems to be missing
Scraping up some sludge around the edges of the hole with my thumbnail.
Black,
greasy,
grimy,
I roll it between my fingers into a ball and then into a plug of sorts.
I open my shirt and dig into my chest and stick my finger into my heart, seems the same size.
I jam the sludge cork in, perhaps I'll feel whole again, maybe I won't.
Or nothings missing and my expectations are to high and now I have a sludge cork in my chest with no purpose at all.
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