Nothing looks broken on the outside. The coffee’s still made. The laundry still folded. The same drawer opens and closes. And yet—something shifts. Something has ended.
“The Things That Came Apart” lives in that in-between space. It is a moment not defined by collapse or closure but by the slow accumulation of days where nothing shifts and everything keeps going.
The Things That Came Apart
By Kerry Ann Wiley
Even silence
sounded different now—
There was no lesson,
only the leaving.
The key still turned.
The glass cracked
but didn’t cut.
Some things vanished
like they’d never fit.
Others remained,
warped by the breaking—
still trying to hold.
It wasn’t enough.
But it was what remained.
The couch remembered a second body.
Sadness came.
And stayed.
A drawer was emptied.
There was no plan—
just motion.
Still: a nail tapped into the wall.
Still: a note written,
never sent.
The future returned
in chipped bowls filled again.
In laughter
that caught mid-breath.
In sleep
that came without asking.
The room no longer waited.
It held the shape of what came after.
Living in the In-Between
This poem sits in the after. It sidesteps the comfort of closure, leaving everything exposed—unsettled, unfinished, and still open to the weight of feeling.
Each image carries the weight of what can’t be said: cracked glass, an emptied drawer, an unsent note. Grief moves quietly through the ordinary, present in every overlooked detail.
The Weight of Ordinary Things
The couch remembered a second body.
Sadness came.
And stayed.
Objects shift their meaning. The chipped bowl isn’t just damaged—it’s a trace of everyday use, of hands that no longer reach for it. The drawer stays half-full, a quiet inventory of what’s no longer needed. The room has lost its sense of waiting; it holds only what’s already passed.
Grief shows up in small things. It is there in a single coffee cup, left untouched. It’s in laughter that breaks too soon, and in sleep that feels more like withdrawal than rest. There is no single breaking point—only the quiet, gradual undoing of a life once intertwined.
What Stays
The poem lingers through its softest truths:
There was no lesson,
only the leaving.
Still: a nail tapped into the wall.
Still: a note written, never sent.
The opening lines strip away the expectation that pain must teach something. “There was no lesson, only the leaving” rejects the impulse to find purpose in loss. What remains is not meaning, but motion—the act of someone going, and the stillness left behind.
The image of the nail in the wall evokes something that once hung there: a picture, a memory, a presence now gone. The object is ordinary, but its implication is intimate—it marks a small, private change. Also, the note that was written but never sent suggests words held back, intentions unfulfilled. It exists in the space between expression and silence, presence and absence.
This section dwells in the aftermath, in the details that quietly record a departure. It lets the emptiness speak. In doing so, it honors the subtle, often overlooked weight of what’s left behind.
When the Future Arrives Quietly
Eventually, the poem turns toward continuation:
The future returned
in chipped bowls filled again.
The image is simple yet intentional—pointing not to renewal, but a return to small routines. The chipped bowls are not replaced; they are simply filled again. Continuation is not found in closure. It lives in what stays behind, in familiar objects that are imperfect and unchanged. This isn’t about restoration in the traditional sense. Instead, it’s a quiet act of continuing, marked by small, repeated gestures. As time goes on, these small gestures gradually make space for the unfamiliar to become something familiar.
A cup is filled. A nail is gently tapped into the wall. A drawer slides shut once more. These simple actions may seem insignificant at first. Over time, they stop mirroring what’s missing and begin to shape what might be. It isn’t a return—it’s the sound of choosing to stay, of learning how to live with what lingers.
Chipped bowls hold the echo of lives once intertwined. Every unspoken gesture bears sorrow and hints at hope. Quiet rituals hold both what has been lost and what hasn’t arrived yet—hope for what may come.
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