What Doesn't Work

The sunlight hit them this morning.

The old glasses.

Scratched lenses,

faded plastic frames,

useless.

In the door pocket

for months now,

under receipts and napkins

that also refuse to leave.

I picked them up

to throw them away.

Same ritual,

same hand,

same moment where I can't

let go.

The frames are still soft.

Still hold the shape

my face made

when I could see through them.

Now they just show me

fractured,

broken into pieces,

the way I look

when I'm not looking

at myself.

So they stay.

In the dark.

Useless and kept.