For me, or you, or her.

I met you first from far away,
tiny figurine up high on a shelf
From there most couldn't see the word fragile, hidden
delicate porcelain painted in perfect symmetry,
no mark or line out of place.
You couldn't hear me if I spoke soft,
and so, sometimes, I yelled.
And the figurine peered off the ledge.

Anticipation of the jump -
it was the kind like a cannonball into clear fresh water,
but to you it looked like suicide -
and you stayed on the ledge for awhile.

And then, you knew, it was your time to fall,
and the figurine smashed on the ground.
Once perfect and seamless and painted just right,
the porcelain was nowhere and everywhere,
tiny slivers and huge pieces covering the floor all around.
You scrambled, the jagged pieces scraping your knees
and cutting into your palms as you tried to grab them,
scoop them, keep them in your hands and put them back together again.
Tears stung your eyes as the blood trickled down -
if the figurine was gone, what was left?

And he came.
Strong hands under yours, he brushed off your knees
and took your mangled hands in his, and washed them.
You winced as he took each piece out -
it was painful and some hurt more than others -
but you knew it was best, and you loved him for it.
You watched them fall away, the shards of glass you once held onto,
and your love for them faded as he worked.

The fingers that once curled around the glass now held tightly to his hands,
as he lifted you up to your feet.
You breathed in deep and tasted air, and coughed a time or two.
But it tasted good and you stretched out your arms,
and you finally started to dance.