primary material?

(to make a note of tonight)

**
what am I made of?

it's not like I were of glass
;you would see right through me
and beware of tumbles,
have me on the mantel
and dust off occasionally

it's not like I were of leather
;you would use me for my good qualities
and cut up to size,
wear me to save your skin
and throw out when wornout

it's not like I were of clay
;you would mold me anyway you please
and knead with knuckles,
wash me off your hands when you're done
and leave to dry out

it's not like I were of stone
;you would get no response
and feel alone,
look for a softer place to rest your head
and kick me aside

it's not like I were of fire
;you would burn to blisters
and shun off,
heal slowly with a tortured smile
and admire from afar

but if you were to do harm
I would break into pieces,
would stiffen up,
would turn into a soggy mess,
I would turn cold and relentless to the touch,
I would die out as flames do

imperfection,
here it lies
disappointment,
here it comes:
I am of human,
not very practical

important dates

How it all started:
To him and to me.

Nudged on by him
to relay a message overseas,
and,
to the future me
with hopes of keeping a memory
as I am not one for keeping diaries
(nor remembering things)
...and now it comes to four years of this

Well, hopes proven:
this has worked.
I remember who, and why.
And wish it be so ever still.

**
in the evening, as it was My time again
I thumbed through some writings
(November to November, to be precise)
equals a year

numbers, nothing but
letters, nothing but
pictures, nothing but
pens and paper, pixels and insinuation

but we all know:
November to November
-- what a year.