Skin and stone

Water runs rough and hot,

fingers tracing the pumice’s jagged face.

It bites at callouses,

chews away yesterday’s walks.

That summer road, gravel spitting,

biting like an old dog,

rubbing skin raw,

a tender ache remembered.

Stone and skin, tangled in that moment,

rough edges scraping soft places,

a bruise forming under my calm.

I hold the stone tight, wet,

waiting for the sting to soften.