My arm tears back through the air.
I grip the pebble hard, holding onto it dearly,
For I know that It is
another world.
Familiarity in my grasp.

It is flat and cold
Yet round and lively
Like a character I know well.
Finite and warm, it feels
As I let it soar.

It arcs.
I calculate its fate.
It falls once, twice,
And keeps skipping.
However, it is not infinite.