Like Lighthouses

We are defined by insignificances,
By small sorrows,
By the tiny dimensions of our loves.

It is difficult to look back
Searching for some fleeting fullness.
We are the puzzles scattered on the table,
But also the pieces thrown to the floor.
Incomplete, nonconforming,
Yet still resolute.

We start our lives whole,
But we break and shatter along the way.
The edges become sharp,
So skittish to the delicate touch.

For each door that swings open,
Two or more are shut close.
Like a tie or some slipknot
Tightening the throat to silence,
The days squeeze and drift away from us.

Aging is understanding oneself as ridiculous,
But without the lightness of the laughter.
How is it possible to have achieved so much
And yet so little?

Like lighthouses
We signal our loneliness
In the fierce darkness
So that ships and their crews
May heed and steer clear of us,
From our rough shores,
From our immeasurable pains.

An archipelago of sorrows and regrets.