I wish I didn’t have to remember to not pine for you as I go about my day, pretending that I don’t want to see you and hear from you. It’s a lie I tell myself. I am acutely aware that I need to keep you tightly confined in a clinical and sterile place in my mind. Keep you entirely separate from where I wish you could be and you’ve proven you can’t handle.
You are like a beautiful and ornate, antique wicker basket. Tightly woven and intricately made, you were built to hold and carry valuable things. Yet you were not properly cared for, protected or treasured and as a result of the past neglect, you are unable to contain the things placed inside of you. They weep from the crevices and make a mess of everything around it; what was put in with such high hopes and faith becomes lost and irretrievable.
Your inability to be what I need is no more your fault than that of limestone’s inability to be a natural reservoir for water, for many of the same reasons. Nature has formed you both in such a way that while you are good for many things, protecting something precious and valuable, is not one of them. Both complicated structures with function in your own right when used sparingly and with the knowledge that the porous surface is quickly eroded.
So while you are beautiful to look at, to touch; while I appreciate the artistry behind how you were crafted and the potential you may have once had; the reality is you are an impractical addition into the usefulness of my life, other than as a decorative innate item placed on the shelf where I display the larger and more impressive pieces of my collection of memorabilia, which I occasionally take down to play with, before carefully placing you back where you belong.