For a time in my life
you held me in your hands.
puddy.
clay.
spinning, spinning, spinning
on your pottery wheel-
you molded me into what you
thought you wanted.
Yet, i still dried too fast for your liking.
no amount of water could fix my imperfections.
to the wayside i fell;
shattered on the floor.
but with those tiny pieces,
I still yearned for
your
touch.

12/03/2007

Author's Note: Thanks, for your criticism, Elliot. It gave me an idea for a better ending. :)

Posted on 12/03/2007
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