being you.

and all of it is seems like a blur.
a picture, a tad bit unclear,
held up by a frame hangs on the wall.
bruised,
and torn,
and broken.
only to be seen by you,
the mender of things.

stitch them back, those fragments
of the dream you once weaved.
colour the sky,
with shades of blue
and purple
and a hint of orange.
spread your wings,
and soar high.

and swim.
cerulean velvet,
washing the sheets of gold.
go dive,
and paddle,
and throw your tiny arms around,
and smile.

i can see from the shore.
you little mender of things,
glueing back the torn shards,
and singing and laughing so hard
that the muscles of your belly
are giving way.
your eyes are leaking
because of the pains of joy;
the joy of containing the world within you.
the land,
the sky,
the sea.
the echoing hilarity
washes my feet.
you touch me.