Pocket Stone

The winter coat,

pulled from the back of the closet,

smells of stale air and faint cedar.

My hand dips into the pocket.

It knows the shape of my palm.

The lining, thin as old skin,

rubbed smooth where something used to sit.

Not just lint now, but a memory of weight.

That river-worn stone,

cool against my thumb,

dull grey, flat as a worry,

it's just gone.

Not lost, maybe. Just

not here anymore.

The space it left,

a slight shift in balance.