It sifts through these parted fingers slowly. It only ever moves, only ever-changing. It’s hard and coarse; wearing us smooth and thin, making us innocent and old.
I am at the beach and the food tastes of it. I’m at home and the shower is filled with it.
In this modern age, it could drive you insane just for chasing the seams. Even there you have tied me sound; you always brought it home with you. I found it in your hair on summer days, in your stories on colder nights.
There was nothing we all needed more than your songs on the piano and your voice in the evenings. That was when the sand seeped into my bones.