She washed over me like water, and I knew love like love had never known; she wriggled into every crevice, licked me clean, then left-- but she came back, caressed me down, deeper still. She went and came like some sick little game and I was stone, alone and uncertain; her visitations slowly eroded my hesitation and I became used to her comings and goings. We settled into a long routine, then: love when she was there and happy rememberings on her trips away. Slowly, though, she found my deep imperfections and seeping into them she'd leave a piece of herself behind to whip cold and hot. She'd tell herself tales when she returned and slowly I cracked, I crumbled, and she'd whisk those pieces away, rounding them to pebbles, then sand while I remained less and less. The strength of her love never waned and in time it became too much for what was left of me, one raw stone, and I let go. I entered her to and fro, another pawn of her whimsy to slowly be rounded to nothing through pleasure.