that old mold

he's got an old mold.
all curves and sharp edges,

cast from that one girl,
that one from long ago
the one who slipped through his fingers

he knows what he's looking for
he's looking for someone who'll fit
but

his hands are bleeding from trying
cut on the razor edge as he's pushed and prodded
various misfits

he doesn't mind the blood
only

each time he tries, and fails,
the mold gets that little bit slicker

each time he squeezes in a hope
the mold gets that little bit bigger

he can feel it's shape changing
though it's not really discernable

he can smell it's evolution
despite how he tries to hammer it back into shape

he's frightened by how each misfit
seems to mis-fit by that little less

it's become a race
to see if he can find a fit
to find that right someone
before his mold is a mangled memory

to find someone to love
while he still remembers what he's looking for.

or maybe.

if he just stopped looking. searching. trying.
and kept his precious mold deep in his embrace

maybe

happiness will just happen.

just like.
that.