She wandered on the minefield,
Her hair dancing behind her
To their own restless tune.
The soles of her feet sank into sand,
Sometimes soft, sometimes sharp
From the garbage of a lifetime.
An old lamp, three photo frames –
Their pictures still intact but faded,
The faces waiting to come alive.
One old blanket, a thousand stories
Of lunches, dinners and movies
And walks down quiet country roads.
She saved herself from them all,
Only to stamp on the cracked mirror
And looked down to see the miracles
Of her body shining in every piece.
Every kiss, every squeeze, every hug,
Every caress she carved into his skin.
As her mind searched for itself,
Wondering where its miracles were lost,
The wind from the waters up ahead
Carried her words back to her,
They engulfed her throat and gloated –
“Do you not wish we had never left?”