Rosey

My crystal’s name is Rosey. Rosey Quartz.
She is the baby pink colour of the waterfalls in heaven.
She sounds like the voice that whispers to me in my memories.
Her taste is of childhood and she feels as cold as ice
Rosey is not just a crystal, oh no.
Rosey is an old lady; brittle-boned with a wise, strong mind.
She looks sharp but her story is smooth.
Her story is calming.
Her story is endless.
I am her story.
She sits on my desk, but she lives in me.