Stones

The stones sit at my feet, the power they hold incomprehensible. No one really gets it. As they roll, I see my life flash before my eyes. I see my mistakes, hopes, fears, broken promises, lost dreams, all spin before me in a quick clatter.
I believe those stones.
They can't afford to lie. Their ties to my life are too strong to be broken, within them is everything I keep inside.
But I can talk to those stones, in my head. They sense the complexities no one else seems to care about but me, they observe alongside me the shadows and creases in the puzzlements of human behavior and give me counsel when I require wisdom.
One day we will be older and we will find them, you and I, in a secret place overgrown with grasses and weeds and vines, the bitter smell of summer poisoning our thoughts till we see only each other and think only of the beautiful mysteries the universe holds.
Once again the sun will beat down, warming my soft dark hair, tanning your lovely, lovely face.
I will tell you abou those stones.
Maybe you'll understand.
I cling to the hope that you will be older and you will understand.
That one day someone might understand.
That one day someone will be begging me to understand.
Because I'm tired of all my silent pleading.
You would be too, if I ever told you about it.