She is made of glass
I can see through her
I can see what she is
there
inside
full of small gestures
the sum of things said
and left unsaid
and those things decay where a heart once was

Her hands are cracked
fractures crawl up her joints like spiderwebs

The glass is dirty with memory
– don’t speak –
– don’t remind me –
– I’ve lived it
and in living I’m trying to forget

In the shadows of my room I sometimes see past her
until I hear her sobs from being forgotten

Who’s duty is it
to fill her with memories of fountains and hands,
of four years gone, two years distilled beauty crystal happiness in salt tears below her eyes
to turn the glass to flesh so I can hold her again?