maybe some days,
you fret as the dreams drip from your subconscious
and onto your wrists
in the form of permanent brown script,
vertically inscribed in a language you haven't really learned;
but tumbles from your tongue.

they ask you to explain,
and you glance in panic at the pearls twisted twice around your wrist.

you stretch on the beach, until you forget the demands.

"Who wears pearls at the beach, and where does it come from, and what does it mean?" they say

you chip at the polish on your nails, more confused.

"Me, and nowhere, and why does it have to mean anything?"