If a promise was a bowl,

I had carved it out of clay.

Carefully, cautiously, I filled it with a million things

until there was nothing left

of me.

Secrets — they soared for a while until they drifted inside

Like floating feathers, moving side to side before they came to rest.

Watery silence soaked the feathery secrets but it was too much,

overfilling,

the contents of the bowl tipped over and

the feathers had drowned.

buried underneath the deepest recesses of my clay bowl.

My promise.

Hidden, submerged, delicate feathers had drowned inside

but, perhaps they suffered a second death when you broke my bowl.