Empty Shell

I found a perfect shell on the beach, all the edges

were smooth, the corners just right.  She was the palest

pink, like the sky before sun appears, and her

ridges were spaced just right, as if carved by a sculptor.

No sand clung to her, for she was too smooth to mar.

As I held her to my cheek, and she whispered,

“Empty inside.” Did she speak of herself?

Or me? I slipped her in my pocket,

as a way to hide.

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