I could gift you broken dishes
Stained in crimson and ecru
You
Would hold them in your soft fingers
Pliant / tenderly caressing the cracked edges
Of old bowls and plates empty of
Nourishment or reciprocity
Pricking your hands, stealing
Beads of your life
Your voice, your calm
Deep shades of ruby red
Drizzling down your palms
Into my mouth
Still, you stand
With nothing but a soft smile for me
And no more room left
For you
