All my words are sand
angry hands on hourglass hips
you are fully turned
away,
as the sand carries
your desert scent,
fire from a hard-struck flint,
as the world burns
beneath
that white-knuckled grip.
Heat and pressure
[no diamonds made]
but,
upon that glassy-surface,
regret is poured to boil
– scars are traded.
An hourglass curves
to the sky,
then to the earth, and
in those curves,
the hours pass
and I regret the sand.
©️ Obol, 2020.
Image artist unknown.
