Our patterns

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.