Grayscale Days


the weeks wash away
these sandcastles;
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.

 

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