Shells

My friends admired the helicoid shells  

gleaming like secrets spilled by waves.  

They fit neatly in their curious hands,  

spirals echoing whispers of quiet time.  

Each curve spoke of patient ocean twists,  

stories written in salt and sharp light.  

I held them close, pressed to my ear,  

listening for proof of the world's pulse.  

The beach emptied itself into our palms,  

tides sculpting truths we never asked.  

Did the shells hear every sailor's song,  

each hope that fell into endless blue?  

We left them piled, a fragile monument,  

offering our silence to their small gravity.  

No one spoke of the loss they carried,  

only the shimmer we carried away.