And Still, I Reach

I keep thinking I can keep the cracks
from widening—
the way I press two shards together
out of habit,
long after the glue has dried.

A fault I know well—
this stubbornness of heart,
tenderness pooling in any open seam
until it crowds out
my own pulse.

I know I can’t fix them,
but something in me
still lifts the broken thing,
tracing the fray
like a strand of hair already coming undone.

This is my flaw—
the old ache rising
whenever someone begins to split.

I know I cannot save them,
yet the wanting returns—
learned too early,
held too long.

And still,
I reach.