sucré salé

the broken frame
the little shards of glass
pebble sized
like sinister marbles
across my bedroom floor
that hardwood flooor so worn
and dirty and cold
despite the early morning sun guiding
your every step across it
you leave another couple scratches
marks scarring the soles of
your weathered shoes
as well as
the very ground you walk on
but the glass doesn’t push through
i envy you
for i only have socks left
(everything else I’ve outgrown outlived)
they have holes too
and even on tip toes
i leave a path of red drops
not unlike a wounded animal
along my path away
from you.