I have built neither monument nor temple, only this stack of pocked rocks, river stones drilled by rapids with holes like eye sockets in a human skull, stone orbital bone smooth. What if you return? What if the front porch light dims when you ring the bell? What if the creaking third step chases you like a haint to the amber fall sky? My life feels moss-wrapped and forgotten. Your memories are always here, quiet kept among the weeds, hovering over these stones, ghost-hung sheet over the line, your grandmother’s voice floating through the river-cut pines. I tore the hem of this dress and wrapped your memory of a heart in it. I place it with my skull stones, which are not a shrine. Just memory made rock, moss connecting your finger to the pulse on my neck.