Little Things


People say that if you put a sea shell up to your ear, that you can hear the rushing of the ocean. The waves rushing up the sand then back out. But you can’t. What you hear is your memories. Sea sounds washing round inside your head. Cold edges of the shell pushed up against skin.

He can remember the softness of her eyes when she’d washed off her make-up, the curve of her spine up against his chest. The pops of her lips touching along his neck. He can remember watching her face when she didn’t know he was looking, strands of hair playing across her face in the sunset. These are the things. The details fading over time. He can’t figure how to keep them.

Put an ear to his chest and you won’t hear these things in his heart. What you’ll hear is just an empty shell. Lost at sea.


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