Bauble

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I’m holding a clear glass bauble in my hands.
Inside is a cherished memory of my time with you,
When I was a small sailship, navigating unmanned.

I’m holding a frosted glass bauble in my hands.
Its surface is pitted with your words
And inside, once sharp images are blurred,
And rounded as though blasted by sand.

I’m holding a broken glass bauble in my hands.
How could I have been so very wrong about its contents?
Not a single word you said was ever meant.
And there was nothing to any of the time we spent.
Glass fragments leave bloodied cuts in my hands,
Spelling out the words I don’t want, but need to understand:

It’s time to let you go.

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