Dusk is upon us –– a slow-motioned death of everything that will never be again.
Skin that with whirlwinds of sand is cleaned –– exfoliating us with its touch, leaving us freshened and dry.
Then dunes of sudden infinities cry out in pain as feet like steel sink deep into their hearts. Threatening never to come out again. Carving their names without contempt, only a flashing content.
The wind is lashing out against my face now. With the constant reminder of your sandy hair, of your spotted nose and your ticking heart.
Your smile, a shooting start across an empty sky but for the lonely moon of my visage.
And so they go: one grain, after the other, counting down to the throb of your departure. To the imminent break of my heartstrings by the strong and incessant pull of my many doubts, which never tire of playing tug of war in my insides.
My soul is a burning candle on the glistening surface of your tired eyes; a buried leg on the deep dunes of my mistakes.
And my tears are now solidified. By the sandstorms all around my naked mind –– scraping my dry cheeks with their falling motion, dirtying my skin with the remembrance of youth.
Then dawn is broken, and so are my breaths. For your distancing steps stain my hair with the grey dust that they leave behind. Putting one foot in the place of the other. Walking alongside me yet already far away.
Now my limbs are torn for relying on the strength of other’s shoulders all the time; my own aghast from all the space around us –– from all the distance between you and I.
Your whole being, a blue sky above me, shining down upon my gold in a contrasting fashion as my fears recoil in a desperate attempt to find a place to hide; finally burying themselves under the weight of your hands.
No life on my mind now. Only dark blotches of lies and worries. Disappointments and joys making mountains and depressions all around. Unperceivably falling.
Falling down in an arranged clutter of selves, of stories now gone, now done.
And it’s a cascade of lines all over, all around, my skin.
It hurts. It hurts. But I like it. It’s the good kind of hurt, the one that has its roots set in love.
And then, silence.