Poetry
1 min
sandstone
Hunter Stoval
it's cold, cold enough to draw a smiley
face in misty glass but I'm in my shorts
and the black tee that you said you liked.
face in misty glass but I'm in my shorts
and the black tee that you said you liked.
the sun has melted behind the sequoias, I imagine
seeing Japan from here, just a little further I whisper,
if you make it past the whitecaps.
I gather up sand gently in my palm, fishing
through with a finger searching for nothing in particular,
the saltwater stings my scrapes but I don't flinch.
I have felt this pain before.
I think I am only flesh and bone now,
just the shoreline swishing
back and
forth,
back and
forth,
and back again.
this sand will be crushed, I think, a hundred thousand
more times than there are stars in the sky but
will always return to under my feet.
someday, it will become rock.
the last of the sand drains from my
fingertips, pebbles gently stick in the crevices
that make me human.
for you, I will swallow the sea whole.
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