Sticky Memories

At the table, scraps lie in a mess,

a bottle of glue, childhood’s caress.

I squeeze, and it flows like time lost in dreams,

a bond from the past, or so it seems.

Fingers sticky, a world to create,

a glimpse of the joy, the bonds that await.

But here at this table, the memories linger,

a reminder that time, too, slips through the fingers.