Two pieces of silly putty
pulled apart by two sticky hands
far, far apart.
The piece to the left sits,
unknowing of the other
except by the small string that
links them together
Sad, forsaken, it waits.
The child with the sticky hands
is called to dinner.
Too young to know or understand what
she has done to these pieces of silly putty,
she leaves them.
One on the counter,
one on the chair.
Barely able to communicate via their string,
the left faintly calls to the right.
“Are you there, love?”