just a vase.
a relic from another age.
spun
and shaped
by someone's hands
in Italy,
or france.
or maybe bayonne new jersey.
who's to know
where things
come from
anymore.
but now, it's dust
and shards
upon the floor,
tumbled down
by a shaky leg from
the end table
you pulled out
from the wall.
don't worry, she says.
it was a gift
from someone I don't
love anymore.
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