every day (like beautiful shells
upon a deserted beach) collects,
like the scum on the shoreline, a repeatedly squeezed
sponge (like that),
reminds her of (like a clenched fist)
me in the way,
me who (in the ruddy mist
of sunset) scrawls in the sand with a stone
pledge to only cherish
me, a shoreline cog of an island coast
can bring those shells to me (said she),
her downcast lashes ordain (and thunder claps
like toddlers clap),
yet as the tides foam and clean (castles collapse)
the shells he sees them
pure like a baby,
his curiosity bubbles
foaming at his lips,
and she will never welcome them,
she will never welcome again
 his lips,
and his stone is cast amongst the shells
upon his deserted beach (like one for every day)
and though now they are clean
they will never wash away.