She walks on water, splashes the silt
Jumping in puddles, reddening the sands
I run behind, warning just so
Holding her sandals
As she stands her ground, teary eyed yet silent
Making faces, to conceal her pain
Of someone's drunken fun late last night
Broken bottles, shards of glass
As always, it is someone else paying
The morning is beautiful
The salty water, rushes in
Washing her bloody feet, making her quiver
The legendary salt on wounds, in the flesh, in person, literally
Classic nature, sans Lady Luck
Mine seems to have had a tiff with hers
A Sunday morning spent
Seaside suture, and in the aroma of disinfectants
C'est La Vie
