Worn Away

I rub the pumice, its grit against skin,

a reminder of life, the places I’ve been.

Each rough edge a memory, each nick tells a tale,

of love and of heartache, of drifting, of sail.

It catches the light, a soft, gritty grace,

transforming the wounds, polishing space.

The hours spent weathered, the layers I shed,

in the palms of my hands, the bruises are wed.

Time works like this, with its patient embrace,

and somehow I find all my scars have their place.

For though I am rough, I am shaped by the past,

the pumice of moments—at last, I am glass.