Flame was charming in a way I had never encountered. I was soft clay to this expert craftsman and I stretched and folded with every nudge and tug. And when I turned to stone at his torch-filled touch, I saw myself only treasured pottery, not hollowed and hardened.
I stayed to be admired from time to time. I was kept to hold burdens — an empty vase filled and emptied and filled once more.
Four years later, I was nothing more than shattered pieces, pushed off his nightstand.