Stone

It’s sharp in all the wrong places
warped where it should be straight
stubbornly solid, unmovable,
hard.

It’s been kicked around by the world
shattered a few times,
then patched up just as good as ever--
maybe.

It’s covered in unspeakable grime
hiding in the shadows,
afraid of light,
dead.

He picks it up
his hands more clean than should ever touch it,
yet he cradles it gently,
never minding the cuts it gives him

and blows on it softly:
the dust, settled into crevices and cracks,
flees his breath
leaving the slime and mud behind

so he washes it,
his tears falling like cleansing rain
he weeps and wipes away the dirt,
then lets it drip down, mingled with his blood

he breathes on it again
and watches as life creeps back in,
closing up the bitter cracks,
turning the stone to clay

Then he pushes and pulls,
smooths with scarred fingertips,
bit by bit molding my heart
to match his own.




-Del