be-longing.

i am, but soft in your hands,
and your hands only.

like red clay in the hands
of an experienced potter.
there is warmth here,
there is love here.

i am profound in your palms only,
you wish to mold me,
there is something intoxicating
about the unknown,
but that -
i am not.

you know me by every dimple,
every nook and cranny,
you are far more familiar with me
than i am of myself or with you.

this is longing –

this is throwing
a fish back into the sea
when you are starved.

this is a gentle reprieve from a kiln.
this is martyrdom,
this is –

this is all i can muster.