The shells I picked out of the sand
as sunlight licked my skin
in a foreign tongue,
are now gathering dust
on the top shelf of my dresser,
above rows and rows of
work shoes,
unused sneakers,
sandals longing for socks,
and repulsive crocs.
The only pair I wear
is still by the door,
strewn about,
sole separating from shoe,
having sacrificed itself
for the pleasures of the day,
tracked sand all along the house,
and protected me from tiny grains
that are still big enough
to inconvenience me.
They don’t gather dust.
They gather shells.
And remind me of
everything they have taken from me.
A beach. A girl. A kiss.
A life I dearly miss.
Held together by the sun.
A place I’m still running from.
The only proof
that I have lived at all.