Walking through
heather and fern
onto a mountain hill
Laying
on a bed of stones
they press into my body
from different angles
Placing a hand
on my stomach
and wonder
where your stone
is placed
Finding a puce rock
weightless
filled with pores
ready to carry
your whispers
and fill the opaque holes
with auriferous veins
that your
words do
I will bring air
Home
It awaits your skin
if you are
ever in need
to be held
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