I look at you as if I would a stone; the prettiest kind.

In my mind; you are that stone.

Solid.

Black.

Light-hidden and drifted from waters on shore as I sit

half-wet,

half-cold,

half-staring.

The stone is hard in hand;

round and smooth; scented of forgotten things.

Milky grit; it’s colour captures all

attentions of moon and eyes,

as I hold you.

My Stone.