for finlay


the tea cup slips from her
silky, little hands
and it shatters in a spiral web
of mess;
you tell yourself you
despise the sight of it

you pick up the pieces anyway
because the tea cup is made
of gold and reminds you
of your sweet, pumping
and you fix it with such
patience, you're drawing sweats
of precious effort
for just a little tea cup

she says her sorry and you
listen like it's a song
and when you're done, you let it
dry and probably heal it-
she says she wants the tea cup
but you hesitate because it's
made of gold
and you don't give golds to
people like her
because she's careless
(and so, so beautiful)

you give her the tea cup anyway
and she smiles
that enchanted smile of hers
and you feel brand new
but inside you feel battered and
worn like an old soldier
because that tea cup slips again
through her silky, little hands-
and baby, it shatters everywhere
like the stars in your
broken eyes

you remember the tea cup, don't you?
it's your heart.