Worn Smooth

Time moves like water over stone, patient, relentless, wearing sharp edges into gentleness.

What was once jagged becomes kind— a thousand years compressed into the curve of your palm, smooth from holding.

You cannot force this tenderness, cannot make the rough surrender. Only the river knows: persistence whispers where violence shouts.

Everything that endures becomes beautiful. The broken reshapes itself, rounded, receptive, wise— carrying the memory of what cut it.