The Fit

We walked with water beneath our feet:
Blue, styrofoam, packed away and neat

When not in use. We built the world together
Jigsaw by jigsaw, made to fit, staring in wonder

At the finished piece. Now they are old mats that no longer fit.
Out of the storage it slipped on dust: we shan’t admit

That it’s long been neglected: the teeth
On the edges have grown loose, ill-fitting sheath.

Old mats that no longer fit, old love and old
Friendships. Step on it so they fold

Back into each other. The world yawns and turn
And grow further apart. We never learn

Do we. We clasp each other tightly fingers
Entwined, sailing the world striding proud sinners

—Earth breakers, sea creatures rising
Between continents. And we trample over everything standing.

We stand surveying the damage over the years. Puzzle-piece
General watching the sinking of the seas.

Our world disappears beneath our feet.

Backstory of this poem: we were fitting together mats for Taekwondo and there were these blue and green mats that were ancient and can no longer fit. It sounded rather romantic to me.