A shell of memory, hard and round, Upon the shifting, whispered ground. I carry home upon my back, Through tides that pull, through what I lack. The world is loud, a crashing shore, I seek the depths, I ask for more Than surface glitter, shallow light— I dwell in feelings, deep and bright. Retreat is not a sign of fear, But where I keep my treasures near. A heart too soft for open air, I guard it with a careful care.

My pulse is pulled by silver beams, A fluid dance in sleeping streams. I wax and wane, a inner sea, In constant, quiet empathy. The lunar glow, my truest guide, Reveals the undertow inside. A pull towards the past, the pure, A love that is both shield and cure. Don't mistake the tide for mood, It's ancient, sacred solitude. A wisdom drawn from lunar charts— I feel the world with all my hearts.

The past does not recede for me, It's like the salt within the sea. Each laughter line, each silent tear, Is held forever, crystal clear. Nostalgia is my native tongue, In melodies when I was young. I keep the photos, not in frames, But in my soul's enduring names. I build my nests from "used-to-be's", From whispered prayers and autumn leaves. For what is love, but to recall The beauty in the fragile, all?

They see the shell, a stony guise, The caution in these watchful eyes. They call it cold, or shy, or slow— The things that those outside can't know. But inside, where the world can't reach, A tender lesson I must teach: That strength is not in how you fight, But how you hold the fragile light. This carapace is just a door, To love that's boundless at its core. For I am both the wave and wall, To catch my loved ones should they fall.