I see you turning and I watch the surface of you change as I manipulate you with my fingers. You curve with my palms and the pressure I apply makes you thinner, and taller.
Without an artists vision I see you only in the future, inept to the process of what makes you whole, but my mind can see you as a whole though you are in the process of bloom.
Will I put flowers in you, or coffee?
An acrimonious state of being perpetuated by anxiety, and my tomb resembles my body seen waving at me from a distance; like the fear of mistaking a statue for a person in passing.