the weeks wash away
turn them into
grains of memories.
ashes in my mouth
make my tongue stick
make my throat sick
I marvel at the pebbles on the beach,
eroded to smoothness
perfect for skipping across the waves.
The flat sand
Tell me what was here
Let me see if I can believe you
always these days, the
grayscale taste of dust
lingers like a powder,
colours my tongue when i speak,
flattens the texture of my words
paper thin until they are just thoughts
floating like a salt breeze, silent.