Frailty is your beauty.
Your inbuilt obsolescence
drives me to maintain you,
to hold you,
to protect you from the progress.
It comes in words.
It comes in boxes,
a gift not chosen,
but forced upon you,
as life itself is.

A jack in the box,
a trick can of worms.
You wait until you are opened.
In stasis,
awaiting some momentary joy.
Gone too soon,
a heartbeat not followed by another.

I was not the first to touch you,
I will not be the last to hold you.