I picked you up in a souvenir shop, as a tourist of love,
Thinking you were chintzy and as magic as a dove.
Then I saw the label: Not Yet Made In Anyplace.
I felt the Thai craftsmanship carved into your face.
Like a statue of Buddha, you cannot be exported.
Like a plague on my heart, you ought to be reported.
I bought you but cannot keep you as the souvenir I wanted.
Instead all my hours by your absence are haunted.
Never will I shop for souvenirs again so brashly.
Never will I love again so beautiful and rashly.
Mere splinters are all that is left of the spell
That raised you to heaven and threw me in hell.