this is letting go

i’m afraid i lost the pinch pot you gave me—

not broken,
not stolen,
gone.

i long for
its crooked grooves
its hallowed depth
its smooshed shape
from hands.
the knock
on a dinner table,
sharing accoutrements
with people i love.

“it’ll turn up” he says.
but distraught isn’t a good enough word
for what it’s like to know
that might not be true.

still
i wonder
if we can pack up the pieces
of our lives
and find each other again.
in the hallowed depths
in the crooked grooves
in the space between—
right where we left it.