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.