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.