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She was there,
I could touch her,
make sense of her form.
I remember her beauty and the way she curled her hair, her voice sounded like a bell while other times it sounded like rough gravel.
I was in love with the sound of the bell. Its sound was alarming yet I knew its gentle chime was warm; she was my bell and I cherished her.
The matchstick was dwindling, I couldn't quite remember but my dad stood there waiting, patiently. He wanted to hold her dim fire and rekindle it; fueled by the old passion, her old self.
She was new,
I didn't recognize her.
I wanted her but she was too far to reach.
I was little and she was big, my hands tight in hers.
We left that day, leaving behind my dad with the broken China.
Everything crumbled in a pile, smashed like a forgotten memory.
China used to be so strong but now you shattered right in front of my eyes.
China held everything in place, you knew you were elegant, beautiful and everyone agreed. China, you had shattered, I think you were broken but no one knew until elegance left and disaster struck. That crack slowly crept on you like a villain in a movie, were you prepared?
The broken china isn't fixed, there still remains cracks and repressed memories that ripple like a tide. I don't remember her broken China but that bell, oh that shiny and warm bell.
I wish I could hold it close to my chest, I wish it could keep me safe but it burned me. It's hot metal etched into my heart like a carving. That bell is all I remember not her broken china, but those memories only deepen not soften. They seep and play hide and seek like a small child, curious of everything; they hide in the most remote places and then pop unexpectedly. They hurt like a paper cut. I'd say memories are worse than a mortal wound though.
They sting your soul, your spirit and sometimes invades your dreams, I still dream about the broken china and the way it stood tall. Gleaming beautifully and vainly.