Hostages

If I could create you as an object, it would be fashioned of marble. Cold and stoic. Heavy and immovable. Your eyes would be carved of stone and staring into the distance; no matter which angle I stood, they would not meet mine. I would caress your crevices and feel the cold emanating from your smooth skin, in a desperate attempt to warm your core. I would fail in this epic tale. I would wind my fingers round yours and you would refuse to mold with mine. I would break a piece of you off, to show my dismay, and tell you, telepathically, I am taking you with me; in your silent protest, you would be my hostage, made of stone.
 I would tuck you in my pocket for the day, and take the piece of you out, and feel the jagged ends, on which you broke off, and feel the sadness of knowing, you are with me, only through thievery.
 I would put you in my purse, and in the coming weeks and months, feel you at the bottom, among loose coins and chewing gum, scratching my fingers, reminding me, you are with me still, in the stillness of a stolen stone, and you could feel my sadness, of being your hostage.

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