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Hot breath,
rough skin,
warm laughs and smiling,
the loveliest words whispered and meant -
you like all these things.
But, though you like all these things,
you love a stone.
You love a stone,
because it抯 smooth and it抯 cold.
And you抎 love most to be told that it抯 all your own.
You love white veins,
you love hard grey,
the heaviest weight,
the clumsiest shape,
the earthiest smell,
the hollowest tone - you love a stone.
And I抦 found too fast,
called too fond of flames,
and then I抦 phoning my friends,
and then I抦 shouldering the blame,
while you抮e picking pebbles out of the drain, miles ago.
You抮e out singing songs,
and I抦 down shouting names
at the flickerless screen, going fucking insane.
Am I losing my cool, overstating my case?
Well, baby, what can I say?
You know I never claimed that I was a stone.
And you love a stone.
You love white veins,
you love hard grey,
the heaviest weight,
the clumsiest shape,
the earthiest smell,
the hollowest tone - you love a stone.
You love a stone,
because it抯 dark,
and it抯 old, and if it could start being alive
you抎 stop living alone.
And I think I believe that,
if stones could dream,
they抎 dream of being laid side-by-side,
piece-by-piece,
and turned into a castle
for some towering queen they抮e unable to know.
And when that queen抯 daughter came of age,
I think she抎 be lovely and stubborn and brave,
and suitors would journey from kingdoms away
to make themselves known.
And I think that I know the bitter dismay
of a lover who brought fresh bouquets every day
when she turned him away to remember some knave
who once gave just one rose, one day, years ago.