|My memories of you now seem delicate, like portraits etched into wet sand
in colored shards of broken glass. They lie scattered along the beach, beautiful but sharp to the touch.
I cannot help myself and so I pick them up, and once again I cut myself on their razor edges.
Tears crash like waves, battering the images, softening the edges.
I hold these back, worried that a day will come when the portraits will meld back into the wet canvas beneath.