Porcelain Fists

Hello my once-lost-twice-loved-never-found dear,
I like the lilt of your name as it falls and rises
like waves under the pull of 
the crescent moon
and I like it even more than
teasers-games-playing-with-my-feelings
because the latter does not make me
tap-tap-tap
my feet
like names do.

Because I am porcelain
and I am a friend-person-nonpartaker-of-silly-love-stories,
but I am a girl who dreams of
story-tales-with-princes-and-princesses
and
walks-on-the-beach-with-candles-not-flashlights
and I crack easier than eggshells that are off-eggshell-white
or china teacups with my rouge-tinted-lipstick-stains.

So hold my heart and let it dance
or never take it and let it fly
like birds that flutter, 
especially in these autumn days,
because you, my dear, are an amalgamation of 
colors and emotions and feelings
like after-sunset skies,
only those invoke a certain happiness
that your ambiguity gently takes away.

Shards can always be melded back together,
but those who play with porcelain
will always live with the wounds and 
scars.

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