my wishing stone

i will not call you my rose

in such an overdone tone, 

i will not compare your eyes

to the sun

i will not equate your hair 

to waves of silk, your hands

to satin

your voice to honey

your voice has always been slightly hoarse,

anyway, your hands worker's rough,

your eyes favor coal more than diamonds,

and your hair splits in places, to grey

you are not a hero of old

and you never know 

what things to say

i always have to call twice

before you answer the phone

it's never in your pocket

but warm wind comes in with you

every night, and your neck 

smells like happy memories 

you check the oil twice a month

and you always call back,

even if i left a message,

just in case.

you are not a gleaming jewel,

nor even a diamond in the rough

you are a smoothed and worn stone

deep in my pocket, that warms

more than it weighs down

and for that reason, it stays.