I wrote this with a relationship in mind, but it could be taken a couple different ways. There's no wrong way to read it.
A vessel destroyed, handled by one not worthy. The ruins lay waiting for a gentle hand to pick up the pieces. Waiting for one, just one, to look past the shards and see the Ivory magnificence it's form once knew. The remains of it's contents exposed for all to partake. Raw are the metaphoric feelings, laying there, grasping, slowly spreading thin. The sleek edges, that could once wound, are now beginning to dull and fade with time. With every look of the by standers, every breath of the passers by, they begin to weaken. Never again will this collection of once priceless beauty be flawlessly restored. Never again will the captivating aroma it once held be at it's fullest capacity. It's just a broken vessel!
The hands, so warm and strong, yet gentle and sure. Smoothing away the neglect and ignorance from the shattered pieces. Damming the flow of the lovely substance seeping through the cracks of what was once it's shelter. Shifting, moving, placing, replacing, caressing, molding, fitting; all the time, so patiently they worked. What were these beautiful hands trying to accomplish? These incomplete remains were never again going to be the same glorious piece of art that all once admired. The hands worked tirelessly, a vision in mind, they could see it, though no one else even came close. They wanted this vision!
The hands pulled back, full of dust, debris, cuts and blood stained to reveal, in their opinion, the most perfect, radiant vessel ever seen. Every piece in it's place, not a flaw to be found. Though the contents are nearly gone now, the potter sees it as an opportunity to replace it with an even deeper, more consuming substance that has meaning to him. This gorgeous piece will never experience a deeper, more passionate love than with the one who took the time to remold it into what he saw that it could become.
The vessel will always be a priceless heirloom in the hands of this potter.