Stalwart

This subterranean love sick vessel,
washed ashore,
Forlorn, half-starved,
bleeding.

And those God-awful things,
of shipwreck and despair,
harbored and clung to the pillars,
not unlike a wasting disease,
something undiagnosed,
slowly fading like that phantom encounter in the bathroom stall,

And turning, over and over, each wave tumbled that love,
smoothing the edges,
washing again fine grains,
losing the imperfections,
losing its hardened identity,
until finally, before it went away forever,
lost in the loam,
it was picked up by a soft hand,
upon which, she cast her gaze,
and there that rough and tumbled stone lay,
looking her square in the golden glint of cornea,
her darkness letting go,
light coming in.
there she stood to ponder,
how such a stone came to be.