In Existence for Another

Delicate hands lift me, shake me, smooth me over. Laid out in pristine fashion, mulled over. Angles and lines contemplated; bumps and curves unwanted, corrected.

Now folds and creases are imposed upon me. Twisted, contorted to the compartmentalized desire of the manipulator. Over and over and over. Reduced to a fraction of my area. An unnatural state. Tucked, patted, smoothed over once again until a state of perceived perfection is attained.

Delicate hands lift me, carry me, place me down. Light draws dim, banished from plain sight, only to be forgotten until the next time desire echoes in memory.

And so, the waiting begins (all over again)...