I gave my love a worry stone, or so it seemed to me. A palm-sized shard of glass, once clear and broken sharp, some edge or base of something whole, an empty thing, now lost. I found it under bared foot, painlessly; the sand that made its coverlet was harsher than the stone it seemed to be.
I gave my love a worry stone, now shattered, now smoothed, now frosted, now rounded, now rendered by the sea a shard of solace. I held it in my smaller hand, and found it didn’t fit. My smaller hand could cup it flat, could round the mounts to steady. My smaller hand could hide in part; could hold, but not possess.
So I gave my love a worry stone. I saw his hand enfold it miles before the giving. His fingers curled to conceal hours before the gift. So I sent back the sand to lie abed and held the outsized treasure in my pocket, in my palm.
I gave my love a worry stone, warmed and carried at the end of my arm. After the miles and the hours had passed, I gave my love a shard of glass, a piece of something broken, a sea-salt frosted transformation, a perfect fit to find his hand. I pulled it from my pocket and I gave my love a worry stone.
I gave my love a worry stone. My love gave me an upturned grin, puzzled soft and blooming tender.
His heart is part of something changed, a shard of something whole. His heart is rendered kind and bright with whimsy if not by whim. Miles and hours between and together, floating far from empty, broken things, we are worn by tides to ease the edge, salted and sunned in a million breaking waves. We tumble into wild sleep and wait for the unearthing, the waking pull to palm. We are shaped to fit the hand that holds us.
I gave my love a worry stone, or so it seemed to me. A puzzled smile followed it warm into his pocket. The worry stone I gave my love was kept and carried there.
My heart sang high; it could shatter glass.
My heart is shaped to fit his palm.