Cold against the skin
of my foot, a round silence
almost black.
That's what you are,
I take with me
in my pocket, an unused mouth.
Held still against my ear
in the hope that you
are still alive,
I can almost hear
a beat, the one my footsteps
used to follow.
Now you are so small
a stone, found by chance
washed until black-
I would I hadn't touched
your skin with water.
Now you're on my palm
resting, sleeping, I couldn't tell.
I'll keep you in my pocket
and dream of swallowing you,
whole beneath my skin
my hearbeat once more.