When running rampit past the shoreline
the smell of salt can fill the mouth
while, lies in your hand,
a sea stone, white and round.
You unfurl your lips and say
"You are my lucky stone."
I clench my jaw
and force a smile,
hating every stir you sound.
Lucky stones have holes in them.
Perhaps you think I am incomplete,
that I still have places to fill.
Or maybe I am old and withered,
becoming decrepit with the tides.
I clench my jaw
and force a smile.
The smell of salt can fill the mouth.
Don't let that smell get to your eyes darling,
it burns.
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