Your weight in my hand is somehow not equatable to your size or what i anticipate for a pressure on my hand. This somehow puzzles me and makes me question your composition.Your dense mass contained within your microscopic structure. When you lay in the palm of my hand it feels as if gravity is in your favor, somehow the forces are on you side. Your rough surface is your deception. Seemingly rugged yet faceted beauty. I lay you on my chest and you pull me down, maybe you draw something with you, out of me. The light moves across your jagged surface, flashy trickster. Your faint corrosion defies permanence and your ability to change, reconfigure defies the air of gravity which you give off.