Pieces that I own.

For it indeed is so poetic of everyone who ever waits in silence. So grand, so divine of their being that they smash their heart open, walk all over the shattered pieces, pick them up, injure their hands, wipe the blood, and then with all the contentment of the world say to these pieces; "I own you."

It was the regular pumping of the heart that made all that noise. The shatter was the quietest sound ever heard. Quieter than the universe itself.

All you heard was your own. All I own, are these broken pieces, that I clutch on to tightly.

The pieces are piercing through my hands, still trying to seek what was, once, theirs.