I carry a stone in my pocket, smooth and cold,
a weight that presses, a grief untold.
It was smaller once, a pebble, a shard,
but time does not lighten what’s heavy at heart.
I turn it over in my trembling hand,
trace the edges, try to understand.
Some days it’s quiet, a whisper, a sigh,
other days it sharpens, a tear in my eye.
It warms in my palm when I speak your name,
as if it remembers before the pain.
Yet no matter how tightly I hold or let go,
the stone remains—steady, slow.
I’ve learned to carry it, not as a chain,
but as a relic of love, as proof of the rain.
Grief is a stone that never quite leaves,
but in time, you learn how to breathe.
So I keep it with me, in pocket, in hand,
not as a burden—but as a stand.
For love does not vanish, nor fade, nor stray,
it stays like a stone—just changed by the day.
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