Erosion

The pumice stone turns gray from use,

I scrub until my heels are smooth,

the skin beneath so raw it bruises

with how much I have scraped away.

Each stroke removes what won't come back.

Debris swirls down, carrying proof:

that I was ever rough, aloof,

that I held something the world wanted soft.

My palms are smooth as any word

I've said yes to. I can't recall

what calluses felt like, the call

to say no. The pumice breaks in half.

Gray dust, like ash, like what remains

when something finally becomes

exactly what the world assumed.