One Hundred Seashells


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I have one hundred seashells
that we collected
on the beach.
There are small ones
and large ones
and even a crab shell.
I put them in a clear dish,
arranging them so their features
are properly displayed.
I’ve done this in every house
for the past twelve years.

Now they are brittle
and broken
and ghosts of the beauties
I fished from the Florida sand.
Now they are all I have left
of you and me.
The glass shattered
and the shells scattered
across the carpet,
their ocean shapes mixing
with shards of broken dreams
of me and you.
Each piece
tears holes in my flesh
as I search for the shells
and the only tangible memories
that exist.

I bleed.

I bleed and
cry and
my crimson fingers
clutching shattered bits
of the sea.


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