I store the tourmaline in the shade
of my heart, unbeknownst to it.
"What a sordid gemstone I am," it sighs—
if only it knew how I yearn for its light.

"I'm only prized for the lucre I bring,"
if only it knew I cherish its quiet gleam.
"There are finer stones than me," it mutters,
but to me, they are mere rocks in your shadow.

"People just lock me away in their boxes,"
but I’d carry you with me through every voyage.
"I’m scratched, worn — mishandled," it says.
But I would thread gold through every groove,
and call them the paths that led me to you.