“your heart is made of stone,” she said,
“but I can turn that stone to sand -”
she turned away to draw the shade,
and I began to understand
the folly flowing through my veins,
the whispers I could not resist;
the blending that just had to be,
the shaking moments, cool and kissed
on beds of flowers made of scent,
and comets writ across the sky,
the death of consciousness of all
that wasn’t fully her. and I
remember only waves in waves,
outside, inside – the pure light shone —
on sandy waste that was a man,
and bits of heart once made
of stone
