The Black Stone

Say nothing.
I am content here, with you, in this quiet room,
after the rain,
as the breeze brings the scent of wet earth
from the lawn.
It is enough.

But also tell me
about what you keep,
not in your heart, for the heart is too sentimental
for the stuff I want, and I have known your heart,
these many years.
No, my love, tell me of the things
in the black stone behind your heart.

Show me the picture
of the man
whose eyes haunt you.
Whose eyes
could be your eyes.

I’ll be your witch
and give you a gold coin
to hang over the place where the stone remains
but crumbles.

And still we’ll sit, as we do,
in this room, quiet, after the rain.

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