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.