Let it be know I let sand fall through each crevice
And when you watch it all fall
You don't count the grains until about 10 left
I count it like seconds
As the texture slowly leaves my nerves like a girl you hate (love)
Those with cancer, suicidal ideation and a beautiful wife
Become aware of their fleeting beaches too late
So they make snow angels in it
Slowly sinking beneath instead of standing up
And the sand awaits the next eager, quasi-benevolent boy
It is a line to the beach, I check my ticket number
"21"