Tatters – a drabble

I mourn as I try to hold the ragged fragments in my hands.�� They bleed through my fingers, falling softly and settling into a small, sad heap.

My heart is heavy as I make careful attempts at rescue.�� It is of no use.�� Try as I might, I cannot make it whole again; my feeble efforts only cause further damage.

I voice my anguish to an empty room.�� It was a great idea for a story, written on a napkin.�� Why didn���t I empty the pockets of my jeans before I threw them in the wash?�� Now it���s forever gone.

End