quagmires, thoughts

clay days were gray days

I miss the feeling of you between my fingers:

of your shape moving with mine,

a smooth glide,

an unperfected dance that attempted to slide,

but sometimes ended in collapse.

The way you changed so easily and followed my will,

yet somehow always put up your own brave fight –

this struggle is one I haven’t forgotten – I don’t think I will.

And though there were nights I imagined giving you up,

following days when plans didn’t seem to pan,

I always came back.

You always came through.

I confess it’s been some time since we last met,

since, in our most natural forms, we made ideas into stone,

but I still dream of you,

keep memories of you

stored in boxes I would never give away.


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