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 the ones 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
and find each other again.
in the hallowed depths
in the crooked grooves
in the space between—
right where we left it.