stepping stone

I am built wide, and sturdy.
hips that span rolling hills and whistling deserts.
a thick mixture of sediment, and aggregate;
grit pressed in to my skin over years of grovelling on knees over paths that had not yet been paved. fragmants embedded by all the fleeting sandstorms endured from this lifetime, and past.

I am sweet and full bodied too.
more like, charoset; a mixture of
lamentation and joyous celebration.
sapid and sacrosanct.
bookended with woeful remembrance
and tear dipped, bitter herb.
acrid architecture.

I am pressed often,
between bricks.
ground between two stones, to be broken and made more useful.
to fit like mortar in the center of two means to an end; neither my own.

I am spread thin with trowel, and packed tight in places unseen but paramount.

I am a place holder.
I am what is between you, and the other.
I am unnoticed, but holding fast.
I am neither the beginning or the end.
I am never the first love, or the last.
I am only the girl between all the rest.

Who stands still, wide, and sturdy.

whose hands are pressed firmly together, as it would seem in prayer. but instead they are held afixed in begger’s pose,
fused by the mounting pressure from either side,
of the women you loved before,
and the women who will inevitably come after.

as time passes, I no longer fit between crevasses.
I am disaparate diaspora; cast from between for having grown too large and coarse.
I have been milled so continuously I have reached homogeny; pieces so finite that I fill undulous dunes when shaken.

I am collected, whetted, and poured in to matrices.
I am molded in to stepping stones.
I have gradually graduated to become the cobble beneath the full weight of each of your strides;
I am the path on a journey but hardly the destination.
There seems to be an imbalance of karma and veneration.
I am laid out through the peaks and the valleys over miles of uncertain terrain, placed to supplement the most percarious of footholds. I am desert shepherd, twofold.

I am both the master mason, and gypsy gypsum.
I am equally the maker and the loam.
I have placed myself here, on my own.
I am the passage but not the home.
I don’t know how to break the habit of ending up alone.

oh how I wish to no longer be only the stone.

(yet still, I am grateful for the weight of you.
perhaps being sated by your footsteps makes me a fool.
but there is pleasure in being the guide to few,
on a journey that the universe brewed.
I can only hope that the path I’ve laid leads me somewhere too.
if not round the same bend, and together again soon.)

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About Amanda Pizzo

just a bird sharing her creative seeds.