Crafted by hand
from the heart of mahogany,
the precious spinning top
lies skew
atop
a stack of unread books.
I pick it up,
cool and smooth
in the palm of my hand.
As my fingers close about it
I remember you
and bring it
unconsciously
to my lips.
Remember how we revolved around each other
in a whirling, dizzy speed?
But imperfectly balanced,
friction slowed our movement
and gravity brought us down,
pulling us into a wobble
from which there was no return.
Now I’ve lost my axis
and all I have left
is this
mahogany
top.

 

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At dVerse, Merril asks us to write about revolution.