You cherish me like fine china,
passed down from your grandmother's hands,
soft and porcelain smooth.
I am similar
with worn and cracked edges,
blemishes that are acquired with age and use.
I know that this can't stay for long,
while I'm fighting glances on the arms of sleep.
And these frequent words,
slipping through my fingers like wine,
leave me discreet satisfaction,
staining the middle of my palms.
Fall leaves never seemed so appealing,
marking a resemblance
to the changing seasons of these bones.