Thread: Archaeological site digs up hopeless romantic

I'd been excavated, once stuck firm in dirt
and years to be disturbed, cleaned of stress,
of rest left to the rest of she; the digger
had did her deed with care.

Yet during carbon dating—
the part where I shared a glass
of my 14-bearings, wishing
this chemistry would be radioactive—
she whisked my beaker away
with words like, "I prefer prehistoric."

So there I was, the young fossil
looking for meat to admire and eat
but no specimen was swayed
by my bone dry wit;
my candle-lit acquaintanceship
was a table of one, exhibit "me"
with no plaque worthy of praise.

Until, by the security glass shine,
I saw with no eyes what was beauty:
the glistening tines of her head,
the embroidery lines of her handle,
a silver sliver of a utensil my age
polished pretty, still romantic ware.

I was to be her bony beloved,
her skeletal sky,
her fuel for the day,
but she left holes in my pride
after she forked my face.