it's hurts because it matters

I want to be quiet. I want to be still. but my pillow doesn't hold the shape of you any better than my hands do now. and I'm left rolling in a sea of covers, clutching at memories of how I fitted against your collar bone so well.

there is sand still held within the chambers of my clothing, hidden within folds and lurking in pockets. once sand has been invited into your hollows and your deep places, it doesn't leave freely. this I know from bittersweet experience.

I cannot wear white. not because I am impure, although if you follow a faith I am your worst reconciler, will take the blame for hurricanes and fuel prices. I couldn't wear white because too often would I play amongst the trees and come back stained with pale greens and deep browns of a child's summer fun. even then, even now, the earth does besot me, the stains are more beautiful than any city brick. but societies expectations screamed for me to wash away the hot tarmac dust from my bare feet, the night air from my lungs.

you always said you were dirt, but you are very much more like sand. and i would not be who I am without my love of them.