Where

I cannot hold the water,
though my hand is wet.
I lift it to my mouth,
but cannot drink.
If I am breathing,
I cannot tell you how.
What must not be asked,
is the only thing that matters.
So many parts
missing from the whole,
and I remember a door.
The wheel throws the clay,
hard because of fire,
but splintered by the floor.
I keep looking for the glue,
for there was beauty in the shape.
It is a memory.
I see my feet upon the sand,
their prints fading while I walk.
It isn’t me upon the beach.
Atop them all,
they rest in thousands there.
I leave them like a whisper.
The waves will wash them clean,
the shells will speak my name,
and my hands hold it all
like dark water.
Who next will hear my name?
We are together,
our voices added to the chorus.
We have drifted to our place,
but we will be moved.