In the Hotel Garden

Look.  There are the stones,  traversing the river.

You and I ran across them so many times,

Back and forth, exclaiming to the skies,

Then I’d  kiss you .


Now the stones are old and slippery.  There are no fishes .

I walk  along the  island  conch shell beach,

Sharp to the touch, my  soles bleed.   Blood  trickles  privately,

Red,  caressing my toes , gently  running over me.


True, I  never  kissed my dead  lover’s lips.

But look, there  is a  butterfly,  dancing

Over the stones , flying so  haphazardly,

Never looking back, waiting you watch me,


Step,  step,  step.

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