Dear Sculptor

In a city framed by faces

this world named by places

with those hands you sculpt me

your hands of a dreamer

and heart of a poet

 

sculpt me

to look more like you

 

a distance somehow manageable

all too unimaginable

while I sit under this thing

called time

but I’m fine with waiting

 

my chest aches with this thing

called time

because I have too much

and I have nowhere near enough

to please you, my master

with my heart that lifts then falls

and speaks too soon

 

look at these hands of mine

now empty but so loved

oh, graceful ownership

not a second less

than forever

I am yours

 

sculpt me

to be more like you