You may love a stone for its pattern. Pyrophyllite, doesn’t matter You didn’t know I could be so hollow. Slight and flighty like a swallow.
And when I change shape it’s just the dripping of the water. And your couch calm fingers illuminating getting older.
While you loved every stone in sight I obsessed over the light strewn across the bed you made. Knowing now not every sunbeam needs a serenade.
At seventeen did you have that moment When you knew everything you wanted? Because I’m watching and at thirty four you stumble in through every door.
Do you miss the fireworks, choosing gloves over pyrotechnics? Warm and wrapped your emerald fingers forgetting all their calisthenics.
Seasinks
acraein 