Burnished

We polish our stones
Quietly absorbed in our work
We enter into a stubborn grief
The taste bitter on our tongue
Unaware of what we have become
Perhaps we have failed
Perhaps we have triumphed
It is difficult to understand
She leans into me
Tiny breaths whispering on my shoulder
Sweet as honey
We need to choose the best stone
The stone which tells our story
Our fingers are brittle from the scrubbing
But the smoothness makes the pain taste sweet
The stones shine with silver and blue
Just like the sea
Just like our constant movement
We take a sip of water
Let it settle
Place the stones at our feet and rest our head
We are glad to have them
They make us shine.