The Leftovers

I was cleaning my room tonight and came across a guitar pick, one of your used. A further search among broken staple cartridges, multi-colored plastic coated and classic metal paperclips and pennies, produced five other picks, worn down from their original rounded triangles to somewhat odd circles. I laid the picks out in a circle like flat quartz rocks against the sand-colored formica of my desk. Two sky blues, one pink and two tortoise shells. I close my eyes and hear your blues, and mine surge like a wave until I gasp for air. I treasured away your discarded picks in a heart-shaped ceramic dish that got broken somehow in the move at the separation. There should be more than this, but I became unsupportive, you said, when I tired of the smoky bars, and then I wanted a degree, which absorbed any extra energy, so you no longer pitched me your picks or thought I cared. Maybe someone new gets your leftovers, But I'm better off not knowing, just in case there is a limit past the pain of which I couldn't take. But I'll keep living anyway, As long as there is a sun in the morning and the moon at night, I'll live for the rises and sets if that's all I get.