So here we are again,
the same place, once again,
same conversations, same little confessions,
the same little cabin and cocktails,
collecting seashells for unmade necklaces,
white shirts over floral prints
over red lipstick
over transparent nail varnish
over oyster dinners and supermarket arguments.
The same spot under the same lighthouse:
red paint like our toenails and white like the shells placed in a line upon your back.
still investigating pearls under the bright sun:
golden sand stretched into the
crashing white waves into the
swaying blue surface into the
year after year: one tight circle of security.
over the sound of roaring water
I heard you say you had fallen out of love with me.