Cups.

We were made to be cups

and fold into each other.

To hold,

To form reciprocal shapes.

Oh, if I were a bird,

with arms only for flight.

At least once in our lives

we feel our eyes as hands.

Alone, we pray,

to conjure away imagined misfortune,

but mostly to precipitate

an unwavering love.

We knew it, in instants;

and its tiny life

tore a valley through the core.

I spend most days on the precipice,

charting lines, parsing the scar.