you. you were a rock who i thought i could break. i thought i could open you up & inside would be one of those quartz crystals that i used to collect from the riverbed when i was younger.
i — i was a heart ready to pour over you. to care, to heal, to smooth, to love. you were ready to accept all of those from me — but not ready to return them.
i could only pour so much until i’d spent half of myself on the rock, & then came a second poor that left me wondering why i wasn’t enough for you. you see, i saw all of your cracks. you showed them to me, then plastered them up with concrete. but i knew — i knew what was rock, & what was fake.
why couldn’t my love fix you? why didn’t pouring my love over you leave its mark? i poured & poured myself onto your surface — only to slide off.
watering a rock doesn’t soften it.
constant watering might wear it down — albeit, over many years — but who would have refilled my cup when it emptied itself over the senseless body of the rock?
the rock only spits out pebbles & sand, which is nothing compared to the vast caverns of my heart.
your pebbles & sand will no longer leave my waters murky.