My worries are stones, falling from 

lips 
*so much better that & there, 
than via tear ducts  
– the catharsis only coming 
with painful expulsion & petechiae aftermath* 
 
Yes worries are stones, tipped and tumbling 
out of mouth. The newest ones, jagged 
as freshly chipped teeth, force cautious
clear enunciation 
to avoid splitting skin you’ve so recently kissed. 
Some though, tempest-tossed so long inside me
arrive smoothed as sea-glass;
as the palm-stones in pocket 
I carry for… comfort? for routine? and this: the 
routine that is 
how it is 
to love me – you accept 
the stones will always be, always come. You 
help me catch them; you remind me 
they can fall away. 
And when all my capabilities collapse 
to holding one aloft – seeking 
whatever light
that can shine through? You stay.