Fine grains
we idle in the ebb and flow

I'm not feeling quite so beautiful today


Between my fingers
are thorn spikes
drawing images of disinterest and savagery

Between my eyes
is your middle distance

the place you look as I speak

the place you go as I touch

I told you once
I was created from the sighing sound
of a wave receding
and that soon
you would not be able to splash me
against your bare legs

Perhaps you forgot

maybe it never mattered