You found a gem.
No—
it found you.

A hook hid in the dirt, humming,
a note curled like smoke in your chest—
it knew the shape of your ache
before you named it melody.

What is a gem?
Not sparkle—
but weight.
A dense whisper.
A puzzle tooth sliding into place
in a memory you never made
but somehow remember.

It hums in the ear long after silence,
a ghost in glitter shoes,
the shimmer that stings
because it knows you.

It is
that one line—
that brain-worm.
That “God, what is this from?” feeling
that tugs your gut like déjà vu
and makes you want to cry
for something you haven’t lost.

Yet.

​

It is the moment the color returns
to a dream you forgot.

​

A gem is a gem. And it is you.