The antique vase that is trust
Is intricate and hard and brittle
And once broken
It cannot be mended
Without eternal reminders of its fall

I tear my skin
On those sharp shards
As I try to press them together
Willing the seams between them
To close up through contact alone

That one small piece of glazing
A blue curl completing the pattern
Lost forever between creaking floor boards
Imagination filling the gap
A wandering finger trying to find continuity

But what if, instead of holding wilting flowers
Its true purpose is to be a reminder, like
“Here it cracked when we tumbled into a fierce embrace
After bruising each other with shouted accusations,” and
“This piece went missing the day you left
And never returned.”