Scattered

My memories of you now seem delicate, like portraits etched into wet sand
in colored shards of broken glass. They lie scattered along the beach, beautiful but sharp to the touch.
I cannot help myself and so I pick them up, and once again I cut myself on their razor edges.
Tears crash like waves, battering the images, softening the edges.
I hold these back, worried that a day will come when the portraits will meld back into the wet canvas beneath.