when the little things go

something so small
so delicate
so specific to one’s own
idiosyncratic nature &
it seems like a needle in a haystack
found years ago
keeping one’s psyche in check
from the little café where that perfect cup of
joe has been
uncovered
to that perfect bowl of ice cream one
takes shelter in directly after a
breakup---
from the infinitesimal
to the grandiose
in our heads they hold all the same
sentimental value
that thing which cannot be gained through other means
&
then like so much in the world
it is gone one day
without prior alarm
without any residue
sending one reeling
as if we had no idea that such
little things
held us together in such a manner---
digging at the temples with the tips of all ten fingers
screaming inside & on the outside as to
not be taken away by the
emotional whirlwind---
because if one cannot count on such
itty
bitty
details of life,
it all has to be thrown out &
the nothingness devours
without pity
without rest
until death do we part from it all
finally.