the aesthetic of being sundered
i had picked up my favorite
vase, thin fingers
sliding across painted sides,
when i realized we are the same.
we are too feeble, too exquisite
for we are composed of ceramic.
i am calm when the vase
peppers the floor, its
sharp edges approaching my feet.
but i am not done.
the slick red contrasts
with the light grey and i
am careful to remove every trace.
"we are broken," i say
"but we can be repaired for
gold dust will seal our
fragmented frames and emphasize
that this is a minuscule event.
we have use yet."