Delicate Instrument
Annette Marie Hyder

Imagine my ardor for you
as a delicate instrument
a delicate instrument of desire
finely wrought
intricately fashioned
like some old fashioned pocket watch
with fabulous properties
and sweeping hands
that brush the finely carved face
that measures not minutes or hours
but sighs and exhalations of delight.
 
Well you took that beautiful artifact
and crushed it beneath your heel
and the glass splinters alone
sparkle achingly enough
to break the hands of time
but there is no putting it back together.

So now I'm feeling that my desire for you
was embarrassingly old-fashioned anyway
outdated in its romantic style.
 
Who needs it after all?
Give me a digital throwaway.