I appear when water is beaten, yet I am lighter than what I’m born from. I cling to shores, mugs, and mouths, a crowd of tiny prisoners made only of air. I vanish at a touch or with time, but while I last, I soften every surface. What am I?

White crystals that make flavors bold, In oceans deep and mines of old, A pinch of me, your dish is sold, Without me, bland stories unfold.

A two-wheeled transport from the past, To add two more, remove my last. Different beasts can steer my course, But don’t put me before the horse.

At the start of an intro or the end of a line Fish might get caught on it while they dine With a curve and a point it draws them in And in writing it is there to make you listen

I am your border for privacy, or simply to add scenery. I can be made from many materials, and many old dreams have a white version of me.