the sum becomes considerably less

than its parts

old books lean listlessly on shelves

next to faded pictures of places

long-forgotten, friends

no longer familiar

a film of dust covers them all

the last mix tape from years ago hides

at the bottom of the box

at the back of the shelf

in the closet never opened

the dust on the doorknob

is proof of its neglect

we are more likely to pick at scabs

than encourage healed wounds

to remember the sting of antiseptic

over the soothing hand that applies it

if familiarity breeds contempt

complacency is the petri dish

and we are mad scientists

competing to find the cure

to our homemade ills

a heart left untreated long enough

hardens to stone

its only hope is to break

shatter into millions of pieces small enough

to dissolve and start anew

when the silence stretches too far

the hurt settles into a dull but tolerable ache

the blind faith of separate paths

intersecting in the unseen distance

starts to weaken, threatens the stability of

home and heart