Your hands
caress the clay
it dances
to your fingertips
begs for shape
& form.
It seems as if
you create
the empty inside
first
the wet clay
waltzing with the wheel
curves that
can hold
nothing &
anything at all.
You smile.
Tell me the emptiness
is never empty.
It holds
what is to be.
It holds
the memories of wine
the thirst of water
the emptiness
is only
the something that
hasn’t happened
yet.
Years later
I still hold
those  curves in my hand
the emptiness of you
gone
still filling up
my mind.