When we met, you were an intricately blown glass vase, bright orange, yellow, red, and rich blue pulled through the crystal. Handles, wound corners, fragile at a glance, but solid to touch. You poured out a half dozen directions, a roman fountain, sustained by unseen aqueducts, life giving, and pure.
When we became friends, a punchbowl, delicately adorned with images: secretive, tantalizing, deceitful and delicious. You ladled out knowledge and treasures. At times marveling at your ability to gift, nourish and enchant, but grumbling all the while as others pulled into their own cups.
When we coupled, a colander, deep welled to conceal the cavities. Unaware of what was being poured in, covertly and singly focused on watching it spill out everywhere. Neither the syrup of security, nor the bold zest of love, remained to entice or refresh.
When we finished, a shallow plate, rimmed in gold, and ornamented with tiny gargoyles. Sleekly finished and slippery, so that every offering would not tarnish or remain. A porcelain wall, a museum piece, cold and non-functional, leaving the bitter ache of what could have been.
