My sensitivity drives you crazy.
Sometimes I think you will pick up a broom
to sweep away so many eggshells.
Or walk without trepidation
until my fears are spelt in dust
upon the floor. I'll kneel down

and try to cup
the powder with a palm, apologising.
And while I'm down there,
trying to clean up my mess,
you're demanding I pay attention.

Wiping my hands on my jeans,
I still can't look at you. The dust lines my throat.
I cough out words, shuffle
the letters on the floor with a toe.

I'm so busy trying to find a path
through all these cracking,
splitting
sounds, I don't realise

eggshells are falling from the sky.