Sometimes, I feel like a trinket on the mantelpiece of your life,
a small sentimental reminder,
my significance forgotten.

You search your mind for why you ever picked me up,
with delicate, fumbling fingers,
all those years ago.

And I'm lost in the chasm of your memories,
all you can see now are my scuffed porcelain cheeks,
my chipped shoulder blade.

The wonder is gone;
you cast me away,
as if I had always meant nothing to you.