Missing Piece

The morning rush was a hasty affair,

a shirt once crisp, now left incomplete,

where a button gaped, a hole like a stare,

exposing my skin, unpolished, discreet.

Time slips through fingers like threads out of place,

small imperfections unraveled the day;

the mirror reflected a flash of my face—

how one missing piece can lead us astray.

Rushing out doors, the fabric cool on my skin,

it clings to my doubts, with every sharp twist,

and I carry this weight of what’s lost, what’s within,

a silent reminder of things I’d dismissed.