The sand has dried

The sand has dried around me. It happens slowly and nothing else happens. The feeling of each grain of sand cutting the skin on my wrist is disembodying. I move my palm over the sand to make a smooth area and then I spiral into it with my fingertip unearthing a cigarette filter. Its fine to look away from the ocean because I know it is there. I know it is there when I dont see it. When I wake up turned around I know which direction it is from me but it isnt something I ever need to corroborate. I put my cheek into the pit I burrowed with my finger and look across the sand. I see a face there. Her eyes were closed and her hair feel across her mouth. I look across her now that she is there for a character, some little bit to stop me and redirect me, but I am seeing other things in place of her. It was far away. It wasnt today, this morning. I was just now seeing it. I thought that it had been tossed around the crystal grains of sand, reflected, and that if she looked at me she wasnt looking at me but just looking. I looked back but I knew that she had already changed. She would be looking at something else, something closer. I looked back but I knew that she had already changed and that I had taken too long to get to this point. I couldnt see the character of her face. It wouldnt tell me anything to do with myself. It was probably different now. I ignored her because she was moving, sitting up to look at the ocean and spreading out her dress across the sand. She could fill up a day, doing things and going places, but she isnt there.



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