Pottery

When God shaped you
Upon his potter’s wheel
He started with a clean slate.
He washed his hands
So he would not tarnish you,
The first lump of clay
On the table.
He spun and he spun,
Folding and molding
And smoothing away the bumps
Until your physique began to form.
He pinched and patted
Your head to your toes
And he placed you in the kiln
To burn into something whole.
You arrived with a sun-tan,
Olive skin and a sparkle in your eye
And I swear there was a parade in my chest
With all the drumming and screams to be heard.
God formed your vial
With the intention of soldering it
To another.
Complete on your own but
Requiring an addition unlike any other.
Could it be?
It’s true.
We flow together.
I feel my left side melting,
And my heart sticks to you
like cement.