I met an old friend last week, 

She looked the same and spoke sweet. 

I bumped into her again yesterday, 

Down my apartment stairway. 

I invited her home for coffee right-away,

And she said yes without any delay.

 

I asked her to be seated comfortably

Until I prepared the best mug of coffee.

I peeped out of the kitchen in-between 

And saw her observing the ceiling. 

She must've noticed the crooked-crack, 

She must’ve thought that I'm a total-wreck. 

I presume she has looked all around, 

At all the unusual things surrounded -  

 

The broken vase arranged neatly 

Amongst other antique vases, 

The broken mirror reflecting 

A distorted image of the mannequin, 

The broken mask of the toy’s face

Revealing a gentle smile underneath,

The broken window in the room

Letting fireflies in for some flight-light, 

The broken bowl in the kitchen

Arranged with other painted-porcelains,

The broken hardcover of the diary

Consisting my handwritten poetry.

 

She looked at me concernedly,

And confronted me compassionately. 

The finely-fixed woman insisted heartily

On fixing my things, and me, predominantly. 

I generously thanked her for being considerate 

And confided in her that I'm fine and in a perfect state.

She borrowed my diary and read my poetry.

She stopped at the poem “Don’t Kintsugi Me”.

She seemed stuck there as she reread those lines -

 

Dear finely-fixed woman, 

And the probable occupant of my heart, 

I know that you are a fixer and a healer, 

But I'm perfectly fine the way I am. 

Please don't try to finesse me your way,

Please don't try to Kintsugi me in a fixed array

Of happy-pretending people living in utter dismay,

For there's uniqueness in broken things 

And beauty in imperfections,  

For there's poetry in shattered objects

That only the broken heart notices.