She is broken pottery.

Shattered and repaired again and

Again and again and—

It’s foolishly hopeful, of course.

The yellowing globs of glue

Do nothing to hide the number of times

She has been utterly destroyed

And—somehow—pasted back

Together.

I inspect her closer and

In the glue-filled gaps I find

A different girl.

One made of stardust and light

Near-forgotten melodies and the laughter

Of friends and glowing molten gold.

She smiles a broken grin at me,

And tucks this new memory away

Into some empty hole somewhere.

I see her now, and know

That I was wrong.