a puce stone from afar


Walking through

heather and fern

onto a mountain hill



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


filled with pores


ready to carry

your whispers


and fill the opaque holes

with auriferous veins


that your

words do


I will bring air




It awaits your skin



if you are

ever in need




to be held



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