Scars and Those Skirts

Scars and those Skirts. And ! At the closing while the waves break, causing tables to rock the bubbled hood off your cappucio, and the sound dipping, a stranger picks up a shell, from the frothy foreshores and gently presses it to their ear, releasing comforting pink noise. A tricolore gestures in the early morning breeze. There are only shadows laying in the shade of boats, no skin lovers, that are restless for nautical distances. The wrapping swirl, of cloth soothes the suns bitting teeth, Away Africa peeps beyond the clouds afar on that magic line. And the weight, of the ever days, subsides. But scars show in your expression.