Empty Shell

Where is the poem, the one I culdn't feel? Escaped, like a flock of gulls when all that's left is shells. The mussels gone or rotted by heavy salty air; exposed like a heart to a fisherman who never eats his catch but hasn't the sense to toss it in the water. I am a shell, with nothing succulent to share.

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Written by

amy-ha

45 / F

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