My Heart Holds a Bowling Ball

For eighteen years, I had you.

My yearning for you has never faded.

You were replaced, yet you grew

in poundage every time- 8, 10, 12, 14,

and I succeeded in average and strength- 100, 120, 140, 180.

You were yellow, purple, and blue many times.

Your condition has never changed-

a polished sphere with no lumps, no dents; my fingers glided across your skin.

How could a delicate object be rigid as a weapon?

Even if I rolled you down an oliy, striped wooden lane to hit the Ten-pin warriors at the end,

you never crumbled into resin soot.

There were no hills, no dents, just arrows guiding me where to channel you on the path.

I only had two chances to knock the pins down.

I trust myself and you, and our win would be graceful.

When my fingertips connected to you, you didn't bite me or blister my fingers;

you were a perfect fit.

You charged at the ten pins with the might of a gas giant cruising through space,

sharing my fury, focus, and firmness.

Your black, gray, orange smog glowing the KELT-9b,

looking like a world of fire to fall freely and burn;

however, you were a cold, hard silk ball contrasting to my warm, soft being,

and I cherished you for it, waiting to feel your texture again every week.