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Clay Bottles

I was shocked to discover
that you had kept the clay bottles.
The containers we promised
each other no one would see,
our private mailboxes
away from the world.

Recall the splattered beige?
It wrinkled
and blotted
the newly taped walls.
They didn’t seem to mind.
As long as you raked
your cracked hands through mine,
all we could see
were spinning tables.

Courage is clay.
Bravery loiters in my stomach.
Inside the dark blue vase,
silken threads frost
my paper heart,
which
still
lingers
there.

My red tea cup will always
hold a Polaroid
freezing the
Sunday afternoon
when time left us
for a little while.
The sculpting tools
were not as soiled then.

I don’t await your return
for I know
you’ll come
bursting through our door,
with time cupped in your hand.
What exquisite clay.

Severed pieces,
will trickle and bead
until time collects in the crater
of your heavenly palm.
I look at the words
being formed on your fingertips:
“Forever.”



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