drops.

it drops to the floor.
one-two-three
she breathes before she
bends her aching frame toward
the tile to retrieve it.
what it was, she could
never tell.
she just knew she needed it.
in her hand.
in her palms.
in the spaces in her heart
that never really filled
at the end of the day.

that was what she was reaching.
aching. wanting.
needing.
but instead, all she felt,
was the dust on her fingers.
the dust on her fingers from
the tile.
and a dream she always
swore wouldn't grow cold.
but did.