I trimmed my nails in thoughtful gloom,
Each clipping curled like a pale half-moon.
They landed soft on the parquet floor—
A quiet rebellion against décor.
“How tragic,” I mused, “that beauty flakes,
In arcs of ivory and minor aches.”
The sink, impassive, watched them fall—
The feet of man are vain, and small.
A silver sliver struck my thumb;
I winced, and thought, how far we’ve come—
From Grecian sandals to worn-out socks,
And rituals done with Netflix on.
I swept the pieces with studied grace,
As if restoring order to the place.
“A toenail,” I sighed, “is art undone—
Brief as love, and just as fun.”