Puzzling

I knew a puzzle once;
she was difficult–
ten-thousand broken pieces
heaped upon a shaky, three-toed table.

The box beside the jumbled pile
wordlessly assured ‘The Starry Night’–
announcing the challenge,
making could-be promises
of Van Gogh’s shattered strokes.

Through a window of insanity,
a familiar scene for me:
darkness dancing on a whirlwind,
the black spire & speckled stars–
spun as one but cut impossibly
in a case of diced identity.

My fingers found her limits
as I knew her,
losing mystery with each connection,
spawning pleasure & resentment
behind her borders.

Piece by piece,
as she was still puzzling,
I filled the core.

My salvation was poorly thought,
taking years for me to see
redemption could not be forced
upon a puzzle
proud of such complexity.

&
in the end,
when she was realized
whole & beautiful
she hated me,
simply.