a puce stone from afar

 

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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