I found myself missing you the other day,
So I made you a little figurine
Out of clay.
It was a little soldier, his sword drawn in
It was just the type of thing I knew
You would enjoy.
You could put it on your bed-side table.
I painted it to match the color scheme of your
I know you told me never to give you anything,
Since you knew you would feel the need to
And I remember how you said you hate doing that,
For fear of rejection, perhaps.
Your pride is inconceivably fragile.
I felt this the moment before we
You stood stoically, waiting for
to move closer.
So I did.
Months pass by,
And I figure that giving you my little soldier,
A tangible token of my affections,
Could serve as a similar
It is far too late to prevent me from giving you anything.
Such pride-salvaging boundaries are impractical when
I have already given you the most
Intimate part of
It was merely my body’s warmth, at first.
A throbbing desire,
A muscle spasm,
A rapturous aftershock,
And then, unwittingly,
Those things transcended flesh,
Becoming the reality of my
So you see,
You have already given me more than you
And I just needed to give you something palpable,
So you could see me, and touch a piece of me
Even when I was away.
Because I was hoping that you were missing me
Until this morning,
When I clumsily knocked my little figurine
Off of the kitchen counter.
All I have to give you now,
Is in dozens of
So I am inclined to believe
That the reality you kindled
Within my soul,
Was too fragile and too fleeting
In your own.
I picked up the shards
Of clay, and
Cried in regret.
Knowing that you would really have loved what I
Made for you,
Had you ever gotten the chance
To see it.