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.