The vase wasn’t
But it had character.
It was set on the ground,
Never full of anything
Except dreams.

Then the boy
Picked it up,
Filled it with flowers,
Set it on a pedestal.
He took care of those flowers
And the vase became more beautiful
As the days went on.
One day
The boy forgot.
Days went by,
The flowers died.
Their charred ashes
Remained in the vase.
The vase lost its luster.

Then the boy came back.
The vase shone for a second–
But he wasn’t back for her.
He reached behind her–
Stroked the mirror the vase
Had never known was there.
His elbow jutted out suddenly–
The vase got the full impact.

It teetered,
Did a fatal dance for a second
And then–
Pieces lie all over the place.

The vase just sat there.
It didn’t have the strength to be out back together.
The boy didn’t even notice.
He walked over the shards.
The vase wished maybe
He would be pierced
By a piece
But he wasn’t.
He escaped–

But the vase would never be the same.

Because that is what it feels like
To be broken.


Published by Amanda Brown

INFP who names inanimate objects, loves to laugh, and is a proud old soul. You can often find her planning out her next crazy project, hugging books, or telling stories about her day that *may* be a little exaggerated.

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