Grains of Sand


The last grain falls to the bottom of the glass.

The sands of time chime 12 o'clock.

The leaves begin to age and fall to their graves,

the air mourns in cool sorrow.

But the end of summer as we know it

is the begginning of fall as we want it.

Weekends, now cherished, blissfully bring free time,

pumpkin spice and everything nice.

By my side, not empty air but my other half.

United at last after five days of early rising on repeat,

we do our damage on Netflix, not needng to fill

the silence to know we're there. We sprawl beneath

the warm sun peeking through my window.

We glow and poke fun at our pale skin.

I merely say a word and, like Anna,

she always finishes my sandwhiches. Under the

waning light of the afternoon we read in

comfortable silence, absorbed in the latest

adventure, always close enough to hold hands

when we swoon. By nightfall I know our own

last grain of sand has reached the bottom of the glass.

No saddness swells within me though, for I know the

moment she leaves my sight, homebound, I may

flip our glass and count the grains until seven days later.


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