They said every piece has its place—
but I never clicked in quite right.
Edges just shy of snug,
colors a shade too light.

I watched the picture take shape
while I lingered near the lid,
not missing, not mistaken,
just… waiting to be amid.

They whispered, “Must be from another box,”
but I never took offense.
Because deep down, I believed
I held a quiet sense.

Maybe I’m not part of their scene—
a farmhouse or sky so wide.
Maybe I’m from a future frame,
a puzzle not yet tired.

Because who says wholeness
can only look one way?
I might be the start of something new—
a sunrise on its way.

So I’ll rest with patience,
not lost, just not yet placed—
a piece that doesn’t finish the picture,
but starts one full of grace.