The fragile yolk compared to the harsh reality.
My thin shell gives in to your brittle fingertips.
Softly chipping the pieces away to reveal the liquid heart.
The yolk drips onto your hands, beating frantically, pleading to not be spilt.
Pleas ignored.
I slip through the crevices of your worn fingers.
The fingers I have held and known for so long.
Drip
Drip
Drip
Down the drain the little heart goes.
The daily task of dishes rinses the residue.
No longer visible,
The heart that once was, now minced into memories.
