Hope's Grave

This rock beneath my fingers.
They tell me it’s just a simple stone,
Weathered down
Along one edge,
Chipped and sharp on one plane.
They tell me there’s a thousand like it.
But they lie.
This is not a rock.
It is a piece of life,
A piece of hope,
That holds my memories.
I have left all my love
Inside its stone walls.
To lose it
Would be to lose
My own life,
And the last bit of Hope,
This piece of her granite headboard
That I pried away
With bloodied,
Tear-stained
Fingers.