The stories we share may have well been written in the sand.
The Sands of time that passed so fast
we merely blinked into a new reality.

Small gusts grab and caress those tiny grains.
The tiny grains that were the skeleton of our stories.
A could be desert of memories turned into a small desolated beach,
with very little sand.

A small peninsula of that sand,
slowly being taken back by the sea.
Each grain; a memory in which we lay
Each droplet of water to separate

So the stories we share
we must write in the sand.
For it will last longer there
Than our hands did in hand