grains peel off my fingertips since i have lost my sense of you. i sit criss cross apple sauce in the sand and grab clumps off the ground. i clench the earth in my hand, and rub it against my palm;
i wonder how many of my skin cells form with the sand, how much of me is left on that lonely beach.
on the ride back home my mother asks me if i had fun on vacation. i tell her it was a lot work to imprint my being on all the world, therefore it wasn't a vacation.
next time we go to the mountains, ill form into rocks and let my bones fall in the valley.
mother will smile and say "it was meant to be"
Author notes
Prompt: decay
A contest entry
- round one; the circle continues by stargazer..
800 points, ended March 28, 24 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
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