He’s this precious glass box with
Fault lines and fissures.
If I tread too hard he will shatter.
I attempt to handle him with
Lace hands and honey soft words.
Wrap him in silk arms and dance across lily pads.
I try to take my time with him so he doesn’t
Fall and break.
I can tell from the cracks that he has been
Glued back together before.
But he’s in luck, because he found me.
I am the artisan of dust.
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