Water Remembers the Stone

The river knows your edges— each curve a conversation held in liquid tongues that polish what resists them slowest.

You do not speak of breaking. The water does not hurry. Years arrive like gentle fingers, patient as moss learning how to grow in the creases of your hardness.

Beneath the surface, something yields— not surrender, but remembering what you were before becoming this weight the current carries.

The stone will outlast the water's name, but water holds the truer history: the map of every ancient touch, the record of all small dissolvings, the shape of what endures by finally learning how to change.