There are tiny slivers in me that ache for a different time
Because that’s were I collected them
Sharp at first but scar tissue has softened the blow
Sometimes I step on familiar ground
Senses flood with white hot memory
Of tea with milk and sugar in a plastic cup
Glowing green buttons and speakers whispering money talks
Eight o’clock coffee and pink chewing gum
Broken glass ring and handwritten mix cd
Our initials in sharpie under a bench
And for a moment, or maybe ten
I forget how the sliver got there in the first place